Beat

My eyes burn,
From this sight.
Burn of what?
Dry? Wet?
It matters not,
Either way I’m neither blind
Nor fine,
But words sting, they
Soften no blows.
Tell our selves lies,
Tied up in bows.
Still, we beat against
Our marrow cages.
All the while
We set the stage,
For attacks,
and breaks,
And far too
Long lived aches.
And still,
We beat.