Limbs

The texture of the soul is a liquid
That casts a vermilion flood
From a wound carved as an oak
It fills the river bank a sanguine fog
These arms were meant to be lost
Hacked, severed, and forgotten
The texture of time is a whisper
That echoes across the flood
Its hymn resonates from tree to tree
Through every sullen bough it sings
These boughs were said to be lost
Torn, unearthed, and broken
Earth to flesh, flesh to wood
Cast these limbs into the water
Flesh to wood, wood to stone
Cast this stone into the water