Your eyes are scarred,
pain twisted and knotted
like a macrame cross.
Your hands are maimed,
the nails clinging
to the flesh
like some broken Huguenot
on the rack.
Your mouth is hard,
the narrow trenches
the years have dug
bind it
like a gilt frame
strangling a dark
medieval portrait.
So many eyes are
light and clear
like dew reflecting
the morning sky.
So many hands are
soft and warm
like a cat against
a naked thigh.
So many mouths
are shaped to smiles
like clouds
releasing the sun.
Why do the silent demons
grapple and sweat
like insane Apache dancers
on the tangled stage
of your mind?
