Skin chases skin alone
and stretches itself until
it dulls every window,
pouring restlessness into home.

Skin knows its pours are suffocating
and draws its own ink
to display fading ideas as permanent
tracing these tattoos, hallucinating.

Skin licks mirror's cold
and clouds wet circles,

yet at it's most lucid
it realises it's own translucence
thus, realises its potential

for skin is part,
not purpose.

Written late in January 2012


Popular posts from this blog

Her Fingers

Please Hear What I’m Not Saying

Our Boy