Cocoon

The blue has nothing to do with me anymore, nor can I afford a look up into it which less means that I am shameful of a misspent life than that life herself has forsaken me for good. The crawling days of season lags behind and I just feel battered and worn again, bemoaning to the thick of the hide that betrays me inch by inch, where the bashful man in me cries fear of a still love, festered down the rusty prison of blood. It has tales to tell, of pain that creeps and heals inside while you mantle a thought up in my thought. I know I must think of a way out as soon as the still fear is nursed to bloom.