Many years have passed.
I remain unspoiled.
Untouched.
Untouched,
my skin dries up
and gets
invaded by cancerous spots.
I shed my skin.
I forget about love.
Unskinned,
my flesh lies exposed
to
the foul air
of modern life
I watch it as it rots
away
into the polluted wind.
I shed my flesh.
I scuff at life.
I give up on compassion.
Unfleshed,
I receive the world
into my
bony bosom.
I let it stain my soul,
as time feeds
frenziedly upon
my skeletal remains.
I shed my bones.
I lose sanity.
I relinquish life.
Un-boned,
I finally become un-made.
Unmade,
yet still alive.
Who
can explain such a paradox?
Who can give me back
life?
Summer 1996