Skin
Skin is motes of dust. Once knew life. Falls, like snow. Skin turned to dry rind. Stiff scales, no give. Cracked hard hide. Skin met the sun’s stroke And glowed red then oozed and peeled. Skin was warm and soft, A shield of flesh wrapped round form. Skin was blushed with blood At the hot whip of a glance. Skin was formed deep in Layers, to shift, float, find the light. Skin is the thin film Stream, not to be stepped in twice. Heather Taylor Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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