What am I, what am I?
Skin, just vacant skin,
Nothing more, nothing less,
(You can even smell it, burned at the edges).
Lines of rivers course its way through,
Long and thin across the forehead, mere scribbles,
With curves snaking in between furrowed brows.
Seeds sprout inside the cracks of walls,
And plants crawl up the undulating bumps,
So green... So terribly frail.
See those veins?
Barely scratching the surface.
Yet there they are- deep rivers, dried rivers,
flowing rivers, infested rivers, choked,
Choked with tears, and then pinkly powdered.
(I have heard whispers, of a place where silence need not be beseeched,
That it lies somewhere inside the heart of every human being.
The power is speech is simply, lost.)