there are no rich words
or original stories;
clothes I wear, threads
recycled from the dead.
Senses of the body
touched and probed
reveal no mystery
but resemble a surface
where many stones
have been hurled,
cast ripples, then slow
to unbroken.
Imagine if angels
were sworn to secrecy
drowning in their own
sweet emotions,
their minds filled with
knowing and dread.
The reason to fear
the flesh is when its
ripped open
what's left?
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