Once I stood in the shadow of limbs
tendrils crawling to caress my untested cheek
I could not be burned by the heat of pain or sin or regret
for over my upturned face towered purity in the form of hope
of future
Crouching in the blue glare of trying
no success is born from sullied intention
when the silver sets but is not replaced there is no shield
the deepest moment of hurt
reoccurring reoccurring reoccurring
that perfect skeleton
superimposed beneath the skin of every man I meet
by now there should be an assumption, preparedness
but I am not quite that callous yet
it will come
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