Looking down;
Cheaply painted toes,
The curl betraying apprehension.
Calloused heels have long accepted
Their lowly place in the world.
***
Scarred shins, sore knees.
Tired from carrying the weight of Shame.
Stomach painfully aware of its emptiness.
Hope and loss. Butterflies and knots.
Breasts. Heads hung in embarrassment.
***
Thirty years of neglect and hate.
***
Desperate scratch marks and blood stains left
Around the empty hole where a heart used to live.
A bloody trail viciously revealing
Its failed escape. How far can you run?
You now sit precarious on a sleeve.
***
Unwanted and exposed,
Available to abuse.
Pale fingers and palms
Hold tightly the ends,
Trying in vain to hide you.
***
Thirty years of pain and irreverence.
***
Shoulders upright – fake bravado,
Knows Atlas’ pain, has shrugged aplenty.
Putting on a show as they ceremoniously hold
The crown of a remorseful monarch.
The mind discerning – quiet and clinical.
***
Your body is a temple, they said.
A feeble body weakens the mind.
It is your only home.
This vessel that holds your most precious possession,
You have shunned. Left it out to rot.
***
Thirty years.
***
The Colour Dead 