Kindest eyes grow blind to grief, when sorrow stains their own beliefs. They saw me collapse to the ground, bleeding; yet they did not come forward. Instead, they drifted away, scolding me for staining their shoes crimson with my grief— without sound, without reach. They loudly cursed me for the stains my reaching hands had left upon their beautiful jackets; yet their pale, proud garments remained pristine. Others walked across my trembling body in placid disdain, their eyes as hollow as the moon, lest my agony postpone their demise. Mercy mourns among the dead, and pity sleeps where pride has fed.