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He can’t feel the pain
The wounds have turned into scars
the scares make his skin thick and numb to the pain
This makes a man hard
It makes him cold
The world loses its taste Morality, civility is all irrelevant
Can’t feel the pain, do not fit in
The sweltering jungle calls his name, the mosquitoes miss his thick cold blood.
The sky does not let rain pour; there is no reason to, he is not there.
The ground begs for his sweat. The desert is empty without him; it needs him. The dust storms go unnoticed. The sun has no one to bake. The inches of shadows found under a large boulder goes wasted. He is no there.
The cold misses his cold blood. The frigged air has no one to cut and cause blisters. His skin can’t be cracked. The snow can’t melt about him; it can’t blind him with the reflections off of its surface. The morning cold misses the sound of his bone snapping and his joints popping.
He can’t feel the pain
His wounds have turned into scars
The scars have made his skin thick and numb to the pain
He does not feel the pain
Nothing will ever be the same.
