I am a tyrant’s favorite spine,
Lashes split the flesh.
Carved out, pretty lines,
In red blazing, rampant repress.
My back is a motley of scars,
A social masterpiece in skin,
An orthodox cowering in shards.
The deformed curvature of men.
You are the brilliant silence
Who slides past the shadows of legions,
You missed the embrace of the timeless
And touch your feet to the untrodden margins.
What can I do from this scull?
Jump this ship’s floor from my knees,
Hope to fall to the arms of the feral,
And sink wildly, beautifully free.
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