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take my worldly form
if you will,
strip me of its many colours
and uncommon textures,
skin me and digest me,
feast on the flesh
that's given me this form,
so you can reach my bones
and the marrow
that's the fountain
of this earthly blood,
that has forgotten
how and where to flow;
and then, lay me down
upon your warm bosom,
empty and lucent,
hold me close,
like a chiffon shroud
moulding itself to every form,
with no form of its own,
lying bare and ready
to be draped,
folded and pressed,
to be washed over
with every hue and stroke
flowing from the brush
of a skilled painter
who has in his bones,
known and felt
devotion and love.