Wanna Make Something of It?

I shoulder wince not due

to you I reminisce

my cue to sprint from

the salon of coatings

to adjust skin's outer tone

That I may undeclare

my origin my hue

my illustration

gone freehand rogue

You meld me with experience

your own awl making

holes to prod

the squads within me

near a fault line seaming

the span of glib to stingy

Sisyphus as arbitrary spawning

of eye blur listening in on

absolution phrased this way:

Pray in my own words

that you may fail to stray