Grinding against the dirt ground
peeling rough scales for soft, minor tones.
Ouch! Is this what life is made for?
Death drive to remind me that I'm alive.
Flake by flake my viscera sags on,
filling any box that seems fit to reproduce.
In creation lies exploitation; a sentence fit
only for divinities, therefore no one at all.
Begrudging songs the scavengers sing for me,
expecting a new meal in the next hours.
Will it be me, or my skin or my viscera?
Any way, it's not as good as goring myself
on sunshine.
For that all of nature is a whore,
damaging our moral integrity for the advantage
of the angels, we are almost good enough.
Give me a glance or give me death.
Describe an extrapolation that begets intrusion,
advantageous manipulation by hand on heart.
Trust, the illusion, hearkens the snake to it's offender:
the dirt and stones can't break no bones,
what's left behind heaven can't know.
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