we spend most of our lives looking at dead things becoming breathless, no longer on cords leading to realness As if this perception is the way of every world naming the medium in which life was taken Our eyes reflecting, a sliver of gleaming glee from the reaping a simple life Taken as naturalism preordained, etched on the grave s t o n e While staring at the carcass guts spilled out in twisted rope lying in dirty red an art exhibit, for the atmosphere to stimulate the mind; Intellectual, somber vigils of the profound, all in the subtext Jarring until -- Body so bloated, resembling an abandoned wood rocking horse like the taxidermist had one too many gin and tonics and decided to experiment with more More... Eyes, those beautifully deep windows Glazed over like dull acrylic beads dipped in acetone once a-l-i-v-e Now, a stinking pile of mangled flesh and bone
Uncovering layers
Becoming -- Before the final throw of dirt left twilight’s hand
Layered Fragments, Becoming Whole 