I see how he boils
I see his skin blistered and peeling
at the surface, and
I see what lies beneath.
I couldn’t help it, his voice started out whimsy and soon turned grey.
I searched for colour, for exposure, for sound;
in every wrinkle,
in every scar I searched, but they grew dull
and duller, still.
There is only one way at a time like this,
for me, just one way.
I carved a switch, long and thin,
kissed it from tip to tip,
dipped it in ferocious honesty
and laid it upon him.
Every sharp went unacknowledged, ignorance shaded
his wounds, so I left them.
He came back for another round and
I smacked him with truth,
defiance and with truth,
and he did not believe me.
So, I left.
Then, he came back and I swat him again.
I welted and blistered his skin, this
time colour arose.
Red infection swelled at the lacerated sites,
and he boiled.
I listened to his blood and his voice boil,
and his skin gash and then blister,
but before all this
I saw what hid beneath.
Now, I stand in front of my mirror,
where he thinks my reflection is
hollow and bare,
and I see all of my wrinkles and scars
and where they came from
and that they will always be
but with their colour,
and their colour,
and their colour!
wow, im beyond words at reading this. Excellent
Thank you friend!! 🙂
Lol, I’m imagining a little girl innocently watching some poor guy drown in a big lard vat with flames under it!
Whoa lol! That works too! 😉
very good! I enjoy your imagery.