Shadowplay

In the crumbling pieces of dead, dried flesh lie your ideas of yourself.
knitted together macabre-like,
a chainsaw divides a wire which connects the
flat, pinky tissues together.
Forming the face of an egotist
come one come all,
there is a matinee showing
a second try at life,
again more words to be found at the bottom of the barrel head.
dirt gets mixed in with the decapitated beauties,
killing one killing all
until there is nothing left, but billowy white
floating in the space which lies unabashed
between the places in the wax.
Dripping down your thigh, on its way to mine,
let it find home, and see yourself through its
safer shore, the one at the end of a long,
and journeyed tale.

~ M. Lucia