Spilt Wine

His face is as hard as asphalt. He has creases that run deep through his face, deep like the canyons of West. Each crease unique, each crease caused by a different circumstance. Each creases a story. A story of heartache, a story of sweat, a story of blood. The blood, the sweat and the heartache were all from a hard lived life. A life spent running from God. Running from life. Running from himself. The constant running had hardened his heart. It had harden his eyes and his face, which had consequently turned his face to asphalt. The coldness of his stare could chill your bones. Behind the coldness of his stare, behind the glaze of a dull fire are vacant eyes. In those vacant eyes you can see his hollow spirit. Just a shell of a sprit now, as fragile as a crystal vase. The sprit was once beautiful, was once filled with beautiful flowers, that have since then withered away. Now the spirit sits on a mantel, empty, collecting dust. His face is as hard as asphalt. His Heart has hard as steel and his spirit as fragile as crystal.