The entrails of life.
The
innards of me
kept behind the closed door of skin.
Bolted under the bones.
Watered by blood.
What storms run amock
within these walls thin,
what tides wash up on the shores
what they carry away:
That which is left behind,
can you gauge from its imprint?
Do the grains stuck in me,
which for the life of me
I cannot dislodge
do they show up through the pores?
kept behind the closed door of skin.
Bolted under the bones.
Watered by blood.
What storms run amock
within these walls thin,
what tides wash up on the shores
what they carry away:
That which is left behind,
can you gauge from its imprint?
Do the grains stuck in me,
which for the life of me
I cannot dislodge
do they show up through the pores?
Would you care to know?
don't tell me
don't tell me
you
know everything.
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