Compassion Without Satisfaction (part 2) But little did the roaming breeze, That made the branches groan, Know that the emerald lady of the night Was indeed not quite alone. On the otherside of the waterbed, Her soft, blue locks cradled her head, Her eyes gaped into the water, still, Contemplating a way to make herself feel ill. Her cerebrum was in slumber whilst her eyes remained bright; Like delicate walls of memory briks that did not leak their light. Her heart conserved within a jar; as clear as her feelings claim, Her soul, though, knows far better than to frame her silly pain. Her veins turned into branches; Her branches turned into scars; Her scars would not stop bleeding as she hid under the stars. Crismon liquid, like a rose, fed the moss beneath, And the thorny trails it left behind, the moist earth each would seethe. The two were blinded by their ache tk notice the cure ahead; For it was each other they required, and not a sweet behead. And thus were nights wasted and the sunlight was crushed; Separated by a waterbed and spied on by a thrush. The hands on the clock were finally alligned, Coaxing their beliefs to think death is sublime. It was not up to the river currents to break this endless cycle, Which gnawed them raw, with stamina equivalent to that of a chicle, But to the shards of glass in the jar of conservation, That trapped her heart, Trapped her dreams, And trapped her motivation.