The Witness

Quick, my suitors have departed—

Find me the doctor—

Call my mother n’ father—

My entrails lay before me soft as dough,

Kneading them fills me with douleur;

My pale frame twisted and contorted.

Quick, I recall their faces—

One filled with lust—

The other, brushed with disgust—

The raven’s plume paints the room in dusk

Strokes of crimson; strips of rustic crust,

Shades of His son, scents of foul fust.

Quick, before I forget their figure—

A child of God, cloaked in noir—

A wretched wast, wrapped in fire—

Don’t entrust my words to the authority;

They snicker amongst the majority.

I said—

Don’t leave me to crimp in this birch rind;

These fleas suck the flayed flesh left behind.