Green-blanket-cape trailing behind
as he paces the corridor,
disconnection deep in his wild eyes,
no laces in his shoes.
Her eyes are pain,
her path to presence is pain,
her retreat from presence almost complete,
wanting death as most want
food or love or sunlight.
Handsome and articulate,
he hand-signals across the room to no one
as his cold, dangerous eyes scan our faces,
calculating the possibilities for violence.
Tattoos of tears,
three from each eye.