The flaming skin,
In its beatings,
In the rebellion of the flesh,
Of that which covers the bones to live,
Hoists itself upon the skeleton,
Can take hits from both the physical,
and underestimates how the psyche would morph,
Would blow the status of self into oblivion,
The rebellion is in protest,
It stands in prostration of every atom of sand,
In all that formed into clay,
In every layer that forms the thin veins
How the arteries thicken,
The Vena Cava and the aorta in all its art,
This majestic anatomy of one’s self,
The heart in all four quarters,
An epiphany,
The true acceptance of the supernatural,
The sorcery of self,
The skin in all its golden hues,
the blackest of gold,
the darkest of seduction,
and the pale hue of desert sand,
How cappuccino drapes the skin,
The drips of tea staining into melanin,
Coffee grains can be rubbed into the skin,
Rub the old away with milk,
Make coffee out of washing,
This skin is new,
Firefly’s illuminating up the spirit that lays within,
Swarming towards living, areas of existing,
The attraction heating,
Life is alive,
Volcano like,
There are still graves that exist inside of me,
But they are visited with flowers
To remind me of the deaths that occurred time and time,
Before the Fighter survived.