The Surgeon
I open my ribs.
peeling back the sinews and
capillaries with precision.
The crack of spreading bones,
my chambered apparatus laid
delicately on the table.
Sharp, precise. My implement
extracts its pound onto the slab
with intention,
pulled and pressed till it's paper
thin and bled out. Soulspeak scrawled
in the crackling veins of my parchment.
I put my skins on display
for onlookers, merchants
and collectors
but none seem to gather any interest.
Skinpull another page
but nothing sells
or charms or foments.
I pack my wares and
toss them onto the pile of
my dried out corpse scattered
on the floor in pages.
Failure.
Another procedure.
Relent, repeat, cut deeper.
And hope to find a reader.
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