Skin Comes Off

The skin comes off; ripped silently-slowly,
peeled by sanity's fractured somersaults,
it falls to the floor like spiralled feathers.

Tendons are pulled by needles of regret,
are snapped like a bow string; cold vibrations,
sound shatters the air with beautiful smiles.

Veins are gathered into small bloody balls
then thrown into a lost corner of love,
they sit in the dust of dead shadowed times.

Bones are broken; tiny pieces splinter,
larger ones wait to be gnawed by daylight,
the fluttered hounds of dawn's waterfall voice.

So all that is left now is who I am,
the spirit which sweeps along fine echoes,
personality that streamlines the mind.