The Stripper
Hour Three 1:23
Layers droop precariously
from form
like draperies obscuring
the world
from the frame I had held
like photograph-
with peeling laminate
ironed over
like wax paper leaves
and never comes back.
The covers fall
from mattresses
skirting the hardwood floors
methylene chloride truth
an offense to the ego.
The blind eyes from which
we saw
as more layers are stripped
bare-boned-
each self overlaid and smothered
with thick blankets of paint
from what we believed would
compliment our wardrobe of existence-
our history of self-
a living work conserved with coverings
ornamented with dust like a sequined gown
ladden by years of dust.
Authenticity-a sloughing of water rings
as we find the glass half-full
to what was once half-empty.
Saw dust particles of the past
reveal the now beneath –
the soft swollen skin
of new growth
paled by sandpaper insights and wisdom.
A polishing of soul
with word and feathered wood
embossed and carved
constructed with experienced hands.
Oil-ladden brushes stain the heartwood
a translucent cherry red-
the brush strokes caressing each corner
in a lustrous gleam of
what once was overlooked,
covered, and smothered by dust devils
and set back into a corner of thought.
The tapestry falls
in a pile at my feet
as microfiber cloths had wiped
the ocean from my cheeks-
stripped from what I once was
into who I became.