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
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