The Process

I stand cold and sterile, almost medical Like a cadavar or a mannequin A sea of moons eclipsing periodically They look like beads, floating on a sea of plates Why are people so white in a glare when naturally They're so dull and grey like so much ash? Light is a liar. Light is deceptive. Under such a tide of it I must look virginal I am stripped and sink into the sickness I feel welling deep within me Like porcelein, I am naked Surrounding myself with a case of words All of them written in my childish handwriting Like some form of finger-painting made by lonesome lepers for the blind Awaiting critique as I slowly drown We do what we must do And écorché ourselves in the process.