These Stone Fingers

This insolence is my immolation.

This Fraught and insipid lassitude

Sledges me like a hammer

And I become a splitting statue

Of once beautiful marble,

Now crumbling.

Shattered shards that curve

And roll into razor edges.

Waves of a glass sea

Frozen jagged

Hidden from the eyes,

Only a secret to be found,

Touched, but at a cost:

Eliciting blood which pools

Into a bead- a liquid bubble

About to burst until it curls,

Gives way to gravity, running

A route through these stones fingers,

Tepid and devoid-

Hands that once held

Life in the palms

That once coursed with electricity

Up from the bones

And permeated ligaments; muscles

Sparking off the skin

At the very thought of contact.


Now devoid.

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