the self

2/20/09


each lesson is but a hand
clutching the saw that folds the flesh
cracking the cage to the sour soul.

a fragile gentle thing, enveloped in tears
pulled and tattered edges
torn fresh and raw, festering and bleeding
convulsing and withering.

force upon the mottled skin
a breaking furrow in the ivory white
a fervor run dry, to plumes of dust.