'tis death
for which
it waits
its shell
caged, cornered
torn scabs
cracked eyes
swollen bones
stolen hatred
swallowed blood
infected
disease
fucking
hole
. . . . . .
from the clouds
comes your breath
dancing upon my lips
soft fingers dwell
words of touch
the warmth of your belly
finds my palms
through your eyes
melting in the garden
of our tears.

Estlin