Worn Like Cashmere

Beneath the full moon’s silver gaze  
a masculine form, once solid and sure,  
becomes a spectral dance of limbs,  
an enigma woven from ocean’s lore.  
 
His skin, a carapace of ancient secrets,  
cracks open, revealing lunar scars,  
as if the celestial orb itself etched  
the map of forgotten battles upon his flesh.  
 
The crab man once rooted in earthly sands  
now writhes, limbs elongating, contorting,  
his chitinous armor yielding to moonlight’s pull.  
A metamorphosis scripted in cosmic ink.  
 
His eyes once resolute and human  
now mirror the abyssal depths.  
An octopus-skull, ink-black and inscrutable.  
A vessel for memories worn like cashmere.  
 
And in the midst of war’s relentless fury  
he dances—limbs undulating, reaching...  
A spectral waltz with death and destiny,  
a creature caught between realms.  
 
Egon Schiele would weep at this transformation,  
his brushstrokes capturing the paradox:  
The fragility of flesh and the resilience of spirit.  
The beauty in surrender to the lunar tide.  
 
For the crab man, now octopus-skull,  
is both warrior and poet.  
His battle cries echoing through watery realms.  
A requiem for lost shores and forgotten loves.  
 
And as the moon wanes, retreating,  
he returns to his human guise.  
A man once more, haunted by memories  
yet forever marked by the celestial ink.  
 
In the quiet aftermath of war  
he contemplates the duality of existence.  
The dance between moon and sea.  
And whispers: “I am both—crab and cephalopod.”