Right and reason have rubbed me raw.
I'm tattered, scattered, and sore.
Scared and unsure -
when curved as my questions,
the bell of your hips
chimes the hour
for me to edge into the dawn-skirted night.
Claws of the Scorpion are bright and open wide.
I stack the scale,
but it's mist and straw to a stone
it breaks the back
it calls home.
And the bell
of your hips
chimes the hour.
Note: In Babylonian astronomy, the scales of the constellation Libra were known as the Claws of the Scorpion.
Sunday Whirl words for Open Link Monday at Real Toads