House of Shedded Skin

A State Of Being

This place is no prison, it is a mirror without ripples.

Builders of old left their skin behind 
when they disappeared into the grey.
But nought new can be made from it.
Those born into their crumbled flesh
learn to adorn the crypts of their own body.

This place is no prison, it is a quicksand beyond time.

Incredible, how each touch on the
walls leaves no mark anymore.
How these walls speak to me no longer.
It's cruelty to listen and not respond,
to echo into your own soul and turn away, deaf.

This place is no prison, it is a bacterial realm for newborn giants.

These walls are gravid with muffled noise, 
still-birthed sound passing through membranes.
Rodents scurry through the temporal lobe,
they grow fat on the vision I miscarry.
Under the bloodless nebular whispers,
decaying zygotes burn like mould across the wallpaper.

This place is no prison, it is a glance into the womb of nonentity.

No windows were conceived for these places,
by night, or day, my feet become foreign children.
Across the dark shoals of the terrain,
I find bits of peeled skin, here and there.
Picking them up, I learn to utilise ocular windows 
to ultrasound mysteries within.

This place is no prison, it is a state of being.

In their violated texture I feel 
and know that this skin could not feel
before and now I stand in a house
of shedded skin, with no doors to leave.
As a giant, I wade the miniature spaces, 
this world I outgrow by simply feeling.

This place is no prison, it used to be my home.