I'm afraid this candle has burned away,
tenuously coating my hands with wax
as if a secondary layer of skin.
I feel the even brush on my lips
as I traipse along shadowy trail,
feeling with my hands like a blind man
without his cane.
A trail that grants no features,
like an obscure cavern walled with razor blades,
or a small crevice in the mouth of a tiger,
cowering in the gaps of his teeth,
so to avoid that fatal chomp;
And when the salivary rush swarms my way,
I'll have nothing but a slick tongue to sink
my fingernails in.

2001 R. Charles
(All Rights Reserved)