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.
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