I am
in a
swiney bead
of breast
when tines
are forgotten
with shrines
of cross
that torn
pages now
drift back
to whole
still pick
the seam
those dark
insignias entrust
the norm
I am
in a
swiney bead
of breast
when tines
are forgotten
with shrines
of cross
that torn
pages now
drift back
to whole
still pick
the seam
those dark
insignias entrust
the norm
