Thoughts, Stories, The Poem
clay like flesh must be found…
Mitchel David Ring
the hand feels wrong…
we may become creeping things…
in from the cold to wood smoke and bare stone and fear…
Am I exorcised?
I want my degradation from the top shelf…
I wish to taste of pain you have long endured…
to the dark haired woman…
there is something left of it…
sit a while, she said, in the company of old ghosts…
something must be left to the fire…
Darling you knew this day would come…
I don’t want to worship you…
someone has to feel the rain on their skin…
it is already decaying…
Mitchel David Ring 