poem 2

tomorrow i will live in my new skin,
i found underneath a dough of white,
silk spun tattoos,
it will cling and cleave,
compelling my flesh in paralysing faith.

i will stride naked free and wild,
white skin polished and preserved like a cadaver,
a silent mouth and pounding wail,
newly sketched out of control and awake,
i'll try this later and forget.

poem

In the end (if we could divine it),
We would know what profit
the possibilities could grant us.
But not knowing,
we risk loss,
loss of the small things,
loss of the big things -
And gain, greater or lesser
than we imagined.