Walls of the Narrow

What crawls inside my spine. Steam the poison by a stream into the end of a river. Marrow out of decay rots next to the broken bones. In the between of life and death. Lies the walls of the narrow. I am skinned by the snake. I am twisted around the flames to a cross. Nailed by the hammer which rakes only spades. I bleed straight into my grave. The tomb by my stand where I remain stoned. Barks my demons right down the middle of my back. I refuse to down my play to pause what is known by time. Aging is not a crime. Actually, the most important of any sign. Seeds of the wicket will never grow. When I am stitched to whatever was sown.