The skin that drapes your fallen lips,
the flesh wounds that await.
The wrinkled lines and sunken eyes
are crafted by your face.
No more will truth be caste in doubt
and tickled by the sores.
The ones who stole the coffin's throat
have crawled beneath the floors.

A cove upon the cysts of rampant
shins with splinted tiles.
Delayed with taps and matching stakes
of cry-relieved divides.
Might I find the humor in the cracks
that draw the floors?
Caress with you the fountain truths
of traps confined in doors.

Add a page within the passage
burnt sage perfumes the ashes
my lashes bat a satin gleam
that fastens itself within the seams
and beams a dream.

Denounced by storms that claim the clouds
that fill your mind with dread
Three deformed before the fourth
could cringe within his bed.
My molted skin is paved with hives
This carapace has grown.
A salted grin and caved in eyes
Majesty is overthrown.

In time I find the reason of
the meanings that you show.
Your mangled hips and broken homes
are feathered by the crows.
The tension strains the rough constraints
devoid in all their thoughts.
And with the edge of pillaged heads
the thieves will walk among the dead.