In the open space before me,
just ten inches from my ribs,
an intangible, entangled
bunch of cut off nerves and skin
that was once a living body
and attatched as if by strings.
Phantom limb, you are my sorrow,
and I feel you night and day.
Phantom limb, a hideous torture
that will never go away.
When the ties have all been broken
and our bodies gone astray,
there remains a secret contour
–full of emptiness it sways–
and it pulls at me with hovering
weight through which the light can play.
Phantom limb, you are my sorrow,
and I feel you night and day.
Phantom limb, a hideous torture
that will never go away.
.
.
.
.
.
L.
