The skin I stitched back on was crude,
A flimsy gauze pressed deep in the wound,
Where sugar-sweetness drew in the worms to chew,
My heart, pan-seared in cast iron,
Brown butter and the fat rendered through,
A familiar smell, but noticed by few,
Awakened with nails in the flesh of my throat,
Begging me to catch a breath or two,
With watery eyes I try to,
The strongest trees must sow deep roots,
The axeman comes forth sharp and true,
To undo, undo, undo,
The mask is cracked in the vermeil way,
It shows in the faintest glimmer or hue,
Seething blood and hatred of you,
A swan song would imply there was a man left,
But the savior knows that's gone too.