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.

Being caressed.

Seldom it had the power to transform into a daffodil

And the caressing lasted longer.

 

But the more it caressed

The more it hugged,

embraced, and

touched.

The more it burnt

And the more it sore.

 

Until Blood dripped on the unstained mahogany

And the caressing ceased.

It hurt.

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.