I must first explain my skin.
As an *****.
Living.
Breathing.
In its own shadow.
The hairs upon which
Collapse
Beneath the weight
Of the passing breeze.
The pores
Sunken in,
So very much
Like the pores
Of the soil,
And the caverns
Of the earth.
The oils
That, so keenly,
Prevent the waters
Of my sorrow
From seeping too far in
As to affect my function.
The skin,
Which otherwise -
So permeable,
So pliable,
Houses these
Life-giving matters,
Contains the beat of my heart,
The fluid of my existence,
The breath in my lungs
As a cyclical gift -
Acts as
The open cell
For my soul.
And we must remember
That something
So fragile,
So accessible,
Contains the soul.
That the soul,
As the skin,
Can be soiled,
Can be replenished.
Can live.
Can die.
Yet,
Left ignored,
The soul
Will still
Live.
Breathe.
In its own shadow.
For Aristotle?
Still a work in progress.