Channard

Take away my body, seeking pleasure in question
"Jesus wept" he said, but there were no tears for me
There is no north on this moral compass, no hidden world for us to see
Just what slips through the cracks of perfection

Gift of the giver who took it all, flowing physical poetry up river
Prose hanging from the walls
Existence never looked so pretty soaked in blood
And accepting denial is the only thread of humanity we'll ever have

Bestow geometry upon my wasted flesh and give it all new meaning
Read the words of the skin any way it pleases and tell a story that lasts eternally
Punctuating images with meat torn from bones, frayed nerves and a cold cold heart

Lacerations leave their precious marks, like famous lovers through the ages
Their scars travel from their finger tips to kiss the air and every surface nailed to flesh and wood
And is tender in it's disregard for closure, distant. Loveless

Without past, no context for torment
For conquered skin, or warmth on their breath

What is your pleasure sir, what?
The box the box the box
Take it, it's yours, it always was

Strewn red and sinew
Slid from the walls down to your thigh
No conscience was clear
A price clouded, but fear
Fear as absolute adrenaline