Pieces
(written 11/21/95)

Images in his brain,
he can't explain.
Hands bound in thought,
in so deep he's caught.

A white hot spark,
hit it's mark,
touching the thought it lit,
dying out, darkening a bit.

Tears fall from his eye,
he doesn't even know why.
Shards of him fall to the floor,
an exterior he never really knew he had before.

Heaven or Hell,
what could be worse,
than the punishment,
he gives himself.

A snake shedding its' skin,
he becomes himself again.
Collected them all,
did he let them fall?

Packed it all away,
broken, shattered, in a glassy spray.
Lain down with the vixen,
in a crucifix position.

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Joshua S. Bell
icbod@spy.net