I let the second skin of my hands slip off,
Slapping wetly on the sand like the scales
Of a snake freshly shed.
/
Splashes of color are on my face, my arms,
Dregs dripping down to my boots,
A bed of roses in the snow.
/
The trigger of my revolver digs into my side,
The handle of my scalpel, twice as deadly,
Burns in my palm like a hot poker.
/
I wipe weakness from my eyes with
A cloth that smells like decay, like the food
I'm grateful to get when I can.
/
The hand on my arm is a python,
Squeezing until I can't but turn,
Falling under the weight of too much.
/
They tell me I've been standing—
My leg has begun rebelling— and the
Bandage there is glue and paint.
/
When I feel the ache it's distant,
Like the essence of a nightmare,
But for the moment everything is still.
/
I haven't woken yet; all is dust and shadow.
I think in similes and metaphors, a child
Attempting to make sense of the unknown.
/
Soon I will wake, a convert washed in a
Baptism of blood and smoke, made new in time
To roll on my second skin and then begin again.
For the prompt from Wordwielder: Poetry.