Here.

The world turns at a senseless rate.
We are stripped of leaves and branches and laid bare,
cradling spoiled fruit with each passing moment.
The sun chortles with piggish glee at the dewy pinkness of our skin
and marvels each time we are branded anew.
Blood and bones are the detritus of days
and in the moonlight we curdle and cower,
licking wounds we contest we saw coming.