There are two of me: one of bone, one of flesh;
And the flesh is slowly dying, doesn’t need food,
Just lay in a bed till a real saint takes me.
The bone has no personality, and I hate her; the
Flesh never speaks, a true pacifist—
The bone is dead like bad behavior,
Like living in my own coffin, quite limp, regretfully.
I am not in a position to get rid of her, a black light
Filtering over a pale face, disgruntled soul.
I should put up a wall— made from mud and whitewash;
Two gray papery bag colors, mummified
And rigid as a coffin. Cover me entirely with its emptiness;
And the rain and the lilies, I do see its advantages.
My skin is itching and flaking away like a half-corpse.
I shall well manage without flesh, no time for tidiness
Say my bones. They humor my weakness like a nurse;
Trying to hold everything in place with gauze,
I am offended in some way even though I look so badly.
The cold world awaits with its dirt and roots;
I wince continually, tears down a bone.
No talk of immortality— death moves in a hurry.
Copyright © 08/13/18 lance sheridan®