I knelt in the scattered rocks
The city far away, a distant mirage
And there it was, bleached and small
Nestled in solitude
Twisting solitary, quite lonely
Forgotten by the powerful consumer,
Broken and all loss
Like twisted steps descending their way home
Desiring to plunge into flesh, into blood
To nurture sensation and touch
To Give life to wracked nerves, and nervous firings.
A fine thing
Masterful art in silence
Beckoning under skin in its day,
Now beckoning bone white, under death’s hallowed space.
I remembered then, how fine life was, how delicate
That even when it ceased, it consumed my senses.