The Conserved

Many years have passed.
       I remain unspoiled.
                 my skin dries up
                                and gets invaded by cancerous spots.
   I shed my skin.
     I forget about love.

                 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.

                 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.

               I finally become un-made.

              yet still alive.
                                  Who can explain such a paradox?

                          Who can give me back life?

Summer 1996