To mould this soft peach skin into something,
Harder, something golden, something that can survive,
Today I am pale and pink, and soft in too many places
The fuzz, the notches, blemishes remind me,
A thing like that cannot run or talk,
I can eat time up till i’m fat with it, sure - there is plenty to go round,
Red knuckles reaching, for clock hands,
Maybe one day I will look them all in the eye,
Now I can see you, now I recognise,
Take those stony pupils, and make some for myself,
The colours reflected,
It’s not like the parsley or sage, growing in your thick skull mind,
They will keep on going, the quicksand,
Finds me, dead jaw daydreamer,
Oil me up, polish,
I’ll make her clean soon,
Running toward the reaper at a million miles a second,
I have so much to waste.