My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend
My pen I never strayed
My lungs I do disdained
My legs not rightly placed
My hands, beyond tangled
This is just some words about
The ethereal wandering spine:
Made of hard candled wood
To be laid cold on the lane
The ghost of it, I dare say, wandered around
Spoken of shame and of the nomads
And in silence, it sew the raging sea
Into yarns of distraught constellation
All in this ill world, not above
The spine was of rage and of distress
Wished forever to stop standing still
And forever more, laid to rest
As broken bones, as thousand glasses
To be unnoticed and blend as well
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt
To blend means to fade away
And to fade means to accept
Annihilation and memories that may
Dangle from the tip of your bones
Why would you
Or the spine
Take it for granted,
wish it to be true?
Truth be told;
a spine helps you to stand still
Aside from your legs and your partial heart
Imagine;
if it wander aimlessly
Where would you belong,
and where would you stand?
But still the spine wanders around
To reign upright on its own
Then decorate beauty of its own
Oh, and perhaps, again
Blend in as well as to fade away
Away
Away
Away
From you
From:
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt—
And could not stay
Look at your spine
Which you can’t see,
why are you so sure
That it is there?
Look at the spines
On your surrounding:
Lampposts
Broomsticks
Electric poles
Candles
Pillars
Look at the spines
That stand on their own
Just a single stick
And nothing more.
Believed to be incapable
Wished to be broken shards
Ended up standing still
For eternity, for darkness beyond
And what are you
Without them?
Just a lump of flesh
A fabricated skin
An empty will
And nothing more
Living in
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten,
haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt.
And what are we,
without them?
Just dark vessels
And distraught veins.
My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend.
