The Skin.

Bare white hands soaked
In mud, made
Of my own skin
And bloody handed guilt
In execution
The flower wilts in strained confusion
Covered in blood-
No, mud, and rotting skin
A sludge of dried up dermal sin
Flint and vinegar to the flesh
Acid for the bones, that hide under the muddy mesh
The skin's the thing
I'll catch my fear therein, and sing