House of Skins
There's little left,
say for the skins of those I've often bled.
Stacked heart deep around me...
I live in a house made of skins-
I've had chances to redeem-come clean.
but always chose to breathe the slanted sweet.
Nobody to blame but the idiot
(me).
Sitting high atop his grinning rock.
Less than half a clock left
(there is still time... I think).
To sweep the heart of these filthy sweets-
With a maelstrom of apologies?
Where to start-it's quite a list.
I live in a house made of skins.
I used to think heaven was within my crooked reach.
Until I looked behind and saw the burning pins.
I jammed into the purity of angel eyes.
Can I patch them up with a birthday card and tarry rhymes?
Crow-footed memories, so little time-a time so thin.
I live in a house of skins.
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