Questions II
What's written between our legs?
What words lay beneath the surface of our skin?
Is our ass the only gate for shit?
Is the path to life beneath our feet alone?
What do we fear standing nude in the naked crowd?
When the pulse of life is red in our voice
or when hugging shuts the door
what 's the meaning of an open heart?
How are we strong with a gun in our palm
when the blood of many colors our hand?
Do undertakers perfume our flesh in grief
or embalm our bodies against the scent of death?
To see scars others alone tattooed upon our flesh
is to be a mirror voiding the faces we have pained.
Our body's a scroll upon which tales are writ.
It's read as sacred by the sensitive eye.
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