The flesh is strange and new, and stretched too wide
But underneath the skin, still something owns
Its past, and while I cannot say "with pride"
It doesn't seem embarrassed. It is changed:
I constantly encounter something new
In my perusal, and I feel deranged
Each time I rearrange what once I knew.
Some things are subtle; some hit in the face.
And I of course have changed as well, though I
Do not believe the bones have noticed. Chase
The past, and you will only live to die.
The bones are still the same. It's a relief
If they changed too, I might just drown in grief.
No comments:
Post a Comment