Osiris

To the end, the Home will uproot itself in nomadic urge - The Flesh will ache to lift as paper from its delicate strands with their reddy pulse, to float off as the slip of a dove and bask with the world in a kitey splendor and unbound from bitter ink, and proudly Naked to the next beginning. The Skin wishes to dirty itself, soles in urban sewage and belly in a ritual mud. The Skin wants to be tattooed, marked, and symphonically Undefined. The Skin wants to be held. And what of the Brain? Oh, You clumsy, grey thing, How You whine to create, how You noisily rustle with blurred Eurekas in Your shaking box, how stubborn! And too clean! You must train each day to soften Your concrete, and finger the soil in. You throb to be spoken to, And Tongue: You throb to speak. You want an exercise that dumbly bends You in unfamiliar manner, You want Your spine to heavily crack, to be understood and answered in turn by another fluid, pink leech. Lungs, You must breathe! Expand proudly, thin sails! Exhale rusted screams and gossamer whispers to tell them who You are. To proclaim Your bit of earth, to which You are purposed a return, a carbon christening. The two jelly-eggs of the Eyes beg the colors, They stubbornly will the whitened pokes in a black-blanketed sky. And They must recognize the special ones They dilate for, memorize each canyon and all their pebbles for the day they are curtained. And ears, You flat, blushing roses, You micey rounds; You know Your purpose well. Let the instruments seduce You, And the words of another prick Your delicate hairs. Receive the good news - that You are loved. Now, scatter, scatter! Seek every crevice, and fit yourself to each corner untouched. Cradle the empty, fill the cups. It is not until You know all the world and hold every bone That You will join to birth the infant Soul.