AND another day as the bones feel very pained        to carry the burden of sin.

ALL two hundred six of them don’t want it; alas it is just the way
it is.

The glob of gelatinous goo in the brain-pan knows it. The cat-sticks have
tried to run from the affliction but to no avail. We’re stuck here
utters the piece of flapping clapper as though ringing a bell.

We’re stuck here.

But time dimishes the skin; watch, see? All saggy and wrinkled.
But still, a small ember of fire remains; the errection of need
or the pounding throbbing kitty’s meow.
Sin daddles at the thought and dew-beaters forget while walking on Mother
Earth.

Now, hush. This is your Soul talking to you: drop the skin.

No need for that peerie-winkie.

:: 04-14-2018 ::