Gravel

Hand tied to sweet, fresh rose corpse-skin,
baby falls with a framed, display of scented oils,
filed atop cream-cut, momentary death.
The meaning of my words lies there, rotting,
baring the hardly structured being right in its mouth,
taking in the fumes, spinning new "monumental"
spoken creations that weave and twist around in
the mind that knows not what to make of them.
Eyes wide, lactating sugar cane for other pupils to lick up,
gravel makes its way into the mixture
then rips open all the scabs formed by poetry
leaving murky blood-powder puddles at my feet;
my own words came back to hunt me.