growing slender like lost shapes
dirtied slacks, rusted basons, and worn tools.
It’s left the old parts on the hillside to lay amongst the mocking eyes.
They are an audience -conspiracy- and I am a leper on display.
growing cold- empty like shells.
Allowing fingers to trace itself in an infinite darkness.
Stretching out snatches of skin.
growing old like dust tracks.
Was once a not so sacred shack.
Opened like lips before trembling. Abused. Unloved.
Touched frequently and turned over in soiled hands.
left alone like an awful chill.
Singing to itself, trying to rouse warmth from the ebony shrouds.