My chest is bruised the complexions of autumn. My groin is bruised the stains of a vineyard. My foot bleeds the rest of the ripened and the rotted. I rebandaged myself and tried not to cry.
I can't take the loss. My soul is fragile. My courage is brittle. In my past I'd cocoon and wait to heal my hope.
Today I considered the similar of cocoon and casket. Both are Kafkaesque. The became differs. The was does not.