standing between the wave and shore,
blocking the daffodils from the storm,
catching the fallen leaves, sombre; pure.
fingers all cold and sore
the crevice of your lips, reeking ichor
your eyes gleaming. vanishing allure
scraping empty corners
biting fresh cut wounds
piercing noxious lethal blades
till you are, left immune.
your skull on the floor
your soul on the ironing board
your skin all gone.