I begin to shed layers of dead skin, to make my bones visible whenever darkness sets in.
Pure and delicate, yet I have been no stranger to sin

I sit and watch my own reflection lament, as it cunningly stares back to an empty vessel.
Blood drips down my chiseled spine, a featherless nymph, swine nor divine.

Nestled inside the chamber of a nether—undefined
profusely wandering, out the window
among the skies and greenery,
along the edges of your periphery
a flightless sight of a remedy..

© Shivs