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Tags: finger touch skin

I looked at the corpse, dead, broken

Wrinkled fingers that once touched rice

Worn out soles that treaded on stones

Marked by pieces of glass hidden by skin

His eyes stared into a ghastly space

A thousand moments captured timelessly

A cow, a deer, a snake slithering

His daughter, his wife and his house

His hands are frozen in the spasm of threat

The dirt beneath his nails from the soil he dug

The wrinkles on his palm travelling spaces of thought

And his fingers longing the touch of another

His lungs have expanded in desperation

His heart in the moment of life

And when all blood stood still in his veins

His lips parted in acceptance

I draw line on his body with my scalpel

Eager to learn what he is teaching me

Knowledge bleeds out and along with it

My breath fills his listless life

My fingers cringe at the touch of his skin

As though each touch transfers to me

A shadow of his forgotten life

Now waiting to be explored by the tears of my knife

He had learnt the wayward of life

And I had the simplest of them all

A scalpel, a book, a body

And the rich experience of existing

This post first appeared on Letters On Pastels, please read the originial post: here

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