The Face

There is a hardness

that can replace

warm blood and humanity,

stiffening a face into stone,

chiseled planes of bone

so cold,

water could freeze on them.

Eyes, fixed,
slick pools of bottomless ice

stilled by something

worse than hate --

no fire blazing there.

Cheeks taut,

skin pulled tight,

flexing only to grimace

crookedly,

symmetry dissolving

into misshapen madness.

And the face

grotesque

cares not.