A Fable Set to Flesh

A body lies upon the table, poised as if in slumber,
Adorned with a tapestry of deformities set upon her rotting flesh.

Glide the cotton over her, soaked in the scorching hopes of change,
And soothe it with the hands of those helplessly impending it.

Shut her weary eyes with glue from each supremacy’s horrors
And tug her lips upward, in name of each civilization’s legacy.

Draw her vitality—such a fragile thing stolen!
Drained and stored away with the parting words of “Never Again!”

Her color, a vibrant olive, is waned into a sickening white,
Any trace of her ancestry masked in the name of ‘comfort’.

Yet they’ll tell you not to wallow in it, a task is still at hand—
To raise her into the image agreed upon by man.

She is now to be immortalized, glassed in a casket
Set upon the vastness of a stolen, decaying land.

Writ in golden letters, lying between the chasm and
Convergence of man; shrouded in carnage is History.

What are you looking for?