No tan for lepers,
the skin has gone on holiday
leaving blood to froth
over gums,
and dribble onto the breastbone
weak as fish scales.
Past life, loves
and mistakes
cling like graffiti to a well chewed frame.
Flesh is fine for mourning,
a real tent for umpteen miseries
to shelter from time and touch.
The honest look of man
in the empire of death...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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