Walls

Garbed in the white cloak

She buries the living, the animated

Herself in silent, eerie graveyards.

She immolates herself every day

And sees a part of her rise upwards.

Amidst the smoke, she sits and laughs

With a dozen surrounding her,

And none see the creases, folds

And the little rips that show her skin.

She ladles out herself for a few,

She shows them where the cloth rips

She shows them the scars, the scaffolds

That in the newfound light seem big to her.

And startled by the brilliance, she cries

She speaks slewed sentences, sliding

Onto the floor, the cloth comes undone.

And stark naked, she lies, in the wait

That someone will pick her up.

He comes in, an armor in place, yet a shadow at most

Of the graveyards of the animated he frequents

And sees her lie naked, and he tries to help her up

Only to see the wounds entangle with his own metal self.

And yet in her distress, he enchanted, gradually slowly,

Undresses himself, in the pale ethereal moonlight

Until flesh to flesh, bone to bone, the robes lie forgotten

And they sing symphonies to the overlooking stars.