The fester of the past caresses my
skin as a mother would.

Grey ash mint apples - a feast
for a crawl to the flees is a burden
unyielding.  The endless unmotivated hours
ending in blinks serve
as the hard concrete floors for the
cellar of my bedroom.
Each glass mosaic piece
of my 19th-century chamber door
embeds a muculent eyeball of my longing ka.
Red droplet soup in a marble bowl,
the utensil now tied in hair clumps.

Every Ra's breath- a six-eyed sand crawler
on my leg thumps