I stuck out the hovel of my unshaven legs
It burnt: The profane glass slowly caressing my skin.
The teared remains of my flesh
Succumbing to the dust in the ground
It was pleasant, at first.
Seldom it had the power to transform into a daffodil
And the caressing lasted longer.
But the more it caressed
The more it hugged,
The more it burnt
And the more it sore.
Until Blood dripped on the unstained mahogany
And the caressing ceased.
I was fooled by its silkiness
Its crystal appearance
I was fooled by the idea of being caressed
Of being loved amidst the hovel of my unshaven legs.