Dig down Demon Dan, down through the strata of lies and defences, down past the humiliation and triumphs, through days of sad longing and masturbation, past years of aimless wandering and directionlessness.
Here at the kernel where the driver sits encased in the husk of his original seed; levers and pulleys at his fingertips to manipulate the outer carcass of this meat puppet; this stone tree. Through layers and filters of dead skin and scar tissue; calloused defence against the schoolboy taunts and adult humour.
Here is where your truth is etched in weeping bark; tattooed on damp skin.
Here is where your freedom sucks moisture from deep strata of accumulated hurt; chlorophyll for a soul forgot.
Here at the kernel where the driver sits encased in the husk of his original seed; levers and pulleys at his fingertips to manipulate the outer carcass of this meat puppet; this stone tree. Through layers and filters of dead skin and scar tissue; calloused defence against the schoolboy taunts and adult humour.
Here is where your truth is etched in weeping bark; tattooed on damp skin.
Here is where your freedom sucks moisture from deep strata of accumulated hurt; chlorophyll for a soul forgot.
1 comment:
This inspired my eyebrows to retain the look of perpetual surprise as they arched ever more upwards. I do still admire your wordsmith skills though.
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