Excavation

Like death

flesh

laid like

dust until

touch like

brush against

almost dead

skin like a

brush

like

the blush

red returns

dust replaced

with glorious

hemo

globulin

like death

like dust

until that

touch

glorious.

Reviews

[Laz K.]

Our respective bodies are not much different from a tree trunk, or a rock. Those places that are exposed to the elements show signs of wear, but then there are those places that are hardly touched, and we forget they belong to us and we forget they they are alive - moss could be growing on them, for all we know. Then, comes a touch and it's magical. The same applies to the soul.

Sorry for going on a tangent, but this poem talks about something I've been thinking about recently.
I like the short, staccato-like lines.

[JR]

Thanks Laz, I wanted it to read fast like a rush to match the overall imagery, and it sounds like it works :).