Black Tracks

These black tracks down my cheeks, remnant healing scars of some other race. A rotten, unfruitful disregard of faith.
As I tore away the tears that had no right to fall, instead a trade for a crimson river to pour. Dry as charcoal, bitter and metallic, sitting in fat flakes upon crescent lips.
The eyes that once cried now unfurnished, a forgotten soul withered in renunciation of a world once pure. Bleak, desolate emptiness fuelled by invisible flames.
The ethereal touch of death that whispers sweetly through the pain of burning.
A drifting, hollow shell of only peach hued-fabric and grey-littered calicos rock. As if all the carbon that lived as rainbow twilight, as diamonds, was electrified and whipped into the blackened heat of coal.
Light, cool fingers of death may trace these black tracks and murmur of earth in an eternal shadow while a maroon lake of roses and thorns forms at my feet. Even faith has left me now.