To Port My Son

So this is the moment. Skin of satin and will of barbs, so much like my own mind that the reflection frightens the scars to bleed with fervour. Would I give my hands grievance, it would be to deny them the warmth of your scorn in the fickle hope of momentary embrace. So upon the hardened discontent of my anguish I sharpen the digits so they may clench between fists, shield and blanket. So intent leads the means of design and fear impedes action, we will bear silent witness to the mangled visage of fickle desire as it claws its place in the fleeting flesh. Burn as the tendons may, the forge rages to procure the steel to coat what was left of the cadaver I call my heart and parade as my soul. Though beyond the gilded winds that trickle from my quivering lips, sleep instances of shattered sight and misread scripts, in which no part has yet been heralded to hold my vocation. Too blunt now is the shovel that builds and buries what is, was and could be the child I knew to be me. Morn this as you would the limbs of a crippled dreamer.