My face is a canvas
on which ever busied time will paint for decades.
My lips are dried out magnets
of unseen power and attraction.
My ears are smithies
that poundr the sounds from the hammer to the anvil.
My hands are warm taloned machines
that alternately build and destroy.
My knees are shredded toilet paper
thrown in oak trees before a monsoon.
My heart’s a molten battery
that doubles as a punching bag.
My eyes are two long dead stars
whose fragile green lights have just reached the Earth.
Copyright © chris kane jr.