The Quest For Physical Intimacy

Is there a soul to save my granite skin?
An icy rain falls distant over fields
made grey by winter's isolated sin.
I hold a lonely stalk, its roughness feels
like iron needles, cold as oprhpan meals.
A hollow home for love, an empty doll.
A quest for petals giving only peels.
The hopes of comfort drifting down, and falling out and in.
There no soul to save my granite skin.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.