Echoing Machinations

At times, I sense an uneasily bound monster; Rushing Out from skin. The inner walls of my tissue Sore and bruised from its' forced exit. The unwashed sex stained rags draped over These bones, dehydrated from sin; Or so the miniature divinity says, from Its hollow Ribcage pulpit. We all have this miniscule whisper We all interpret the message through our organs; Pumping, thumping, washing Itself in the vast Ocean of blood - Inside collisions Exists and my lifes' landscape sculpted by my own Bodys' movement. Often, by candle-light, stars, & the moons waxing Sway; Mydistant dreams lie. Tomorrow will come, surely, as bright as day; Hopefully without regret, malice, or apathy; I might upon the glowing horizon, rely. ------------- Scott Waldon