Artefacts erected in glass
Will not belong to the soil or the
Grasp of the dead they were
Taken from. They remain
Scrutinised by a gaze hard enough to
Bruise like tarnished brass,
A state of deterioration.
Taking stock of my bone-
Stretched papery skin, how it winces at
Touch and colours with weariness
Dark as under-eyes, nothing
Here belongs to me.
I have seen it on others — backs
Blooming like a map, red welts of a
Slave. The forest is a
Merciless master, those marked
Must writhe as if bitten by a
Centipede, wielding a whip
Of a thousand legs sinking into skin.
Well travelled and falling
Apart, each time we go back
The jungle takes something
From me.
Updates 
Leave a comment