Guilt
Dust claps its hands
in swirls of descent. Fear unearthed,
the soil of the skin disturbed.
Sweat burns as it kisses you.
The air is drowning me, my chest constricts
beneath the strain of a serpent.
The hinges of my neck, rotted
and dropped, flesh hanging like fruit.
The body silent, reflecting in its depth
mistakes. scars that cling, peach tarnished
with oil, dripping like the fur of a cat
from a terrified face. Eyes moisten, guilt
penetrates.
Copyright © Phil Naylor | Year Posted 2005
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