The Emissary

Searching for another brilliant metaphor,

failing to even come close to it.

Falling down is such exquisite harm.

The bared, new facts that we are not invincible.

 

Knife is love and blood is its expression.

No more hiding,

vanquished all the shadows.

Skinless nerves and lidless eyes beholding

experiencing without spin or virtue.

 

Mind laid bare by each moment.

There is nothing left, but everything.

Staked out under a magnificent Sun.

 

Dying to tell secrets and lies;

anything that will keep

this terrible feeling

that there is nothing

except this forever.

 

Something keeps the world turning.

Something drives this whole insane vision.

Fate has placed its hands under

my shoulders

and lifted me into this strange position.

No abiding by my old physician,

this new place is home now.

 

Mindful

of my old ways,

of my character,

who I assassinate

with everything I do,

with everything I say.

I am  a torturer.

I am the emissary.

 

Without skin I cannot feel,

but I feel everything unending.

Even to look at you

is like immolation.

 

I’m not what I will be

but until then,

I will face

my consequence,

my territory,

my satisfaction.

 

In another

random

lot of time,

there will be a snake skin

left behind,

and I will go.

No questions,

no provisions

and you will know

what I am

and what I am not.

 

Touch me

while you can.

It is like surgical knives

are setting me free,

by setting me on fire.

 

Maybe that’s the point

of losing me

in the sleight of hand

and misdirection.

 

HG – 2018

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