disintegration...

Tragedy;
a self perceived drama,
and my hand has run out of fingers;
designator digits I use to count the accumulation of loss;
permanently attached reminders, lists,
bulleted accounts of heartbreak, shame, betrayal, abandonment,
and death;
gently twisted to grasp the pen of the unforgiven.

Fingers once used to give pleasure;
to fondle, to stroke, to caress,
and create sounds from instruments;
harmonious movements, passionate synchronizations,
and now they are but numbered stubs;
posts without connected railings;
no pastures to line, no fields to divide, no gardens to protect,
and that is the tragedy.

Skin once thick, supple, and resilient;
wrapping, holding, absorbing, and expelling;
and now it sags with folds and creases;
reminders collected over time when boundaries were stretched;
over-exposed and the radiated residuals blemish like rust;
creeping, eroding;
a corrosion beyond caustic.

Organs once filters, cleansers;
purifying pumping stations offering-up rejuvenation,
expelling poisons self-inflicted or by happenstance,
and now they approach inoperable from bombardments of inflammations,
unable to preform duties taken for granted,
and as they shut down,
so does and so goes the unforgiven...