woven in the skin beneath my flesh,

is the words written for those that can see,

sewn into the underneath are rhymes destined to be,

I wrote a sonnet in summer,

I burnt it to keep warm in the cold,

it birthed itself in my nightmares,

flimsy recognitions,

windows in place of mirrors,

I kept the fire burning,

I worshipped the birds and bees,

fragmented sentences,

titillation of tendencies,

we gave,

we took,

pathetic lies stolen in our sleep,

I saw the image,

I gave it a name,

that name was me,

and I was it,

we were us,

one,

and all…