. .prosodic arson. . . . . . .(header pic tribute to Zilon).

    I’ve never seen her so naked, so angry as the day I saw through the ink. So needy, so wanting confused. A laconic twist – gap between conscience and action – to realize her own fabric would be unmaking; the kind that blossoms in the vibrancy of imagined colour and implied hues.
    She would, one day, shed a marred hide and submit to her own tannins, for once feel the burn of her own colour. There is nothing so close to life, yet worlds so far apart, all at once, as leather, nothings so soft yet so achingly stiff.
One day she will wear her own hide like an oilskin bodysuit, the firm beauty of her soul will shine through and melt that doleful confusion away, paraffin and cured.