You have consumed me.
What I once was is no more
I am naught but what you yourself are,
though in truth I know
nothing
of who you might be.
I did not at once realize
that you were here, until I looked around
and perceived the bare veil of translucence
of lingering
of listless silence
of an ancient soul that has relinquished
no divine secret.
But you do remain,
and you remain as ink
indelible,
invariable,
illegible,
soaked into the fibers of my being
not exactly black, but a sort of gray
typical of withered old skin and the color of
the glimmer of asphalt as it is hit by rain.
And you have molded me,
shaped me with your beautiful old fingers,
pressed into me with your melancholic age,
delving deep and
unraveling, unfolding
my creases,
setting things of whose nature I could never know,
weaving them into my sinews,
braiding them about my neck.
I am wasting.