A soul lies dormant, cold and alone. The common man has cast one too many stones; upon bare flesh.
I am bruised, beaten, broken. The Father has spoken, “Damaged goods”!
People whisper behind my back. I’m too worn to give them flack; head hung in a pile of dirty, tattered rags.
I’m old, withered, isolated, on the fence. I speak no more of beauty’s past tense; I’m dingy.
The windows to his soul sparkle. He becomes my patriarchal; dirty me.
His gentle hands polish me. Shredded skin sings with glee; love molten.
I’m the envy of every eye. My Love’s heart would not lie; beautiful man.
