Bedlam in Your Skin

Time speaks in quiet whispers,
Stirs up wisps of memory crisp and full of neon glisters,
And in them is the mystery of where starts the sin,
Where passivity loses,
And the conflict wins,
It’s the start of the bedlam in our skin,

It’s the dead hem where life begins,
And ends,
Where the epidermis mends,
Embraces and befriends the flesh,
And we now see the million faces mesh,
They’re wrung round our essence,
It places a fallacious presence around our aura-vapour,
And the laces of words and lies are made of burning paper,
It’s a papier-mache guise,
And a body in disguise,

We keep our enemies close enough so we can recognise,
Because with them lies our demise,
Encased in an unfamiliar shell that eats us till it dies,
Tarnished and ill we are released when the body fertilises the land,
Only a passing thought in Earth’s epoch and memory gland,
A piece of sand syphoned through the galactic hourglass,
And the weight that hung on our forefather’s shoulders is now flung with us in the cask,
And made into a mechanism that controls the mechanics of time,
The pendulum is swung,
My eyes are hypnotised,

Arise the prisoner of the flesh,
Arise,
Fill that flesh with light and freedom, answers, quotes and questions,
Reflections, reflecting that light to blind the past and present,
And light that will fill the crescent with a whole,
A full moon lighting a path for my soul to find a future,
A moon which releases my moods that are held by tides,
Crashing or pulling,
High or low,
On the shore it’s an assault,
In flow like a sault upon gorged cliffs,
Where anger consumes rocks and rips at it with rifts,
Pulling at the skin,
Devouring,
Maybe even the Earth has bedlam within,
And there are too many layers in its sum and substance for me to even begin.

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