whether it's paper thin
blue ink flowing through a fragile fountain
just below the surface
or thick and sinewy
a seeming impenetrable barrier to the bonehouse within
it is both vulnerable and resilient
taken for granted and mistaken for identity
the measure of beauty's depth
capable of shape shifting according to the beholding eyes,
a vast organ knitted together by single cells
that started in the sea of starfall
making each cover of water, spread over the marrow beds
that lie planted underneath
exhaling their whole lives in this murky pool
like fallen branches floating moss covered until threadless decay
returns them to the earthy womb
the dark matter tomb from which they sprung
to feed the atoms still waiting
to become what they will.
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