deepundergroundpoetry.com
My Small Skull
My small skull,
cannot tell you how many hands cradled it.
held it up to the light,
To see the pale blue moon of my eyes.
My elongated fingers,
will not whisper,
of the world they have touched .
They are not my identity,
they’re not the ends of me.
My tiny tapping toes ,
cannot grumble of there woes.
Of all the paths they’ve been,
they have not walked all my journeys with me.
My skin.
Silent now.
Will not tell you my secrets,
of those I have touched.
It knows not,
all those that I have reached.
My body cannot tell you,
all the life I have lived ,
for my life,
is more than skin.
Or skull.
Or beating heart.
my body is not all I ever was,
or all I’ll ever be. [/font]
cannot tell you how many hands cradled it.
held it up to the light,
To see the pale blue moon of my eyes.
My elongated fingers,
will not whisper,
of the world they have touched .
They are not my identity,
they’re not the ends of me.
My tiny tapping toes ,
cannot grumble of there woes.
Of all the paths they’ve been,
they have not walked all my journeys with me.
My skin.
Silent now.
Will not tell you my secrets,
of those I have touched.
It knows not,
all those that I have reached.
My body cannot tell you,
all the life I have lived ,
for my life,
is more than skin.
Or skull.
Or beating heart.
my body is not all I ever was,
or all I’ll ever be. [/font]
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