Tuesday, December 25, 2012


Of satsuma flavored skin,
unruly strands of hair, aroma
of bananas, and lavish spray,
of tea tree mist.

Of soft mounds of fat,
over once-emaciated flesh,
time's victory over metabolism,
hard-gained normalcy.

Of a stranger in the mirror,
one step short of lunacy; eyes,
roving for a familiar line or mark,
for a sign of life.

Of the puppet-master's prop,
nonchalant at best, unmindful
of the distance,
or the direction.

Of the desire to willingly submit,
and be carried away, into

No comments:

Post a Comment