Desert skin, I'm seeing wrinkles in her feathered grin,
Sentiments aside, I'm viewing sinkholes within sediment,
Letting leather tint her masqueraded flesh,
Hidden stretch marks, scars, and dilapidated breasts,
Scatterbrain cancer made a mess,
Caught her waiting on it like a Richard Allen Davis death,
With a palpitating chest and a bitter pose,
Sitting frigid similar to in the midst of winter snow,
We tried to kill it slow although it didn't go,
Leaving her a brittle dome shown with the skin exposed,
Intervals of painful intermittent flows,
Her unwritten woes reminiscent of the Middle Stone,
With a little home in an ominous person,
Behind a wall of uncertainty and a hospital curtain,
(St. Michael's) For the knife she would bottle the burden,
It was either God or a surgeon, that saved my...
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