W a t e r c o l o u r . O N . S k i n

Two cyborgs in the greenhouse
Will soon arrive to the kitchen
Their arms brimming in bitterness

They spin their pains as guests watch
Preparing their palates for something 
More potent than weak astringent

All seat themselves at the scrambled 
Results of Mom and Dad’s organic

A taste of wine falls from a guest’s eye
Then rolls down an elegantly tapered

And with less than a wink, it
Compliments the curves of her molasses

Form, function, and substance are
Whisked into technique, crafting 

While digesting the geometric sprouts of our
Therapeutic brussels, becoming cyborg

On which they inlay our hearts with ebony and
Ivory keys of carved gilt and cheap lacquered

Still with Hope we ornate into ceramic beings
Birthed from the mushrooms of an uncultivated

We are heavy, hard, and though nearly impossible
To digest, we are not the impending condition of

We are hands of natural grace, mouths of exotic lustre, and bodies sculptured in the classical vibrance of passionate art

We are flowing Life, just water, barely Here

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