Et Tu, Edistuo?

I must have been born inside out
with sunburnt skin for a soul
where I could feel each shackled wince
as a burning touch, straitened
in the unshell strapped down
with gut, sinew wrapped and muscle bound.
Outside in fingers feel only nerve endings,
and those murmurs I hear in my turned in ears
are the swallowed words of my turned in mouth.
Standing on my head as my wrong way feet
backtrack across my unchambered heart.
My superpower is night vision
but I see only the back side of my eye balls
in the infrared of my conscious mind
while primal fears parade in flashing neon
round about for all to read
except me.
Carve your initials in my bones
and paint my skull cap red.
What do you suppose will go on my coffin
when what ain't me is dead?

Practice, Practice, Practice

Effortlessness is the end of effort
On a sea smooth as glass the sail is filled
Wing-weary eagles glide that climbed above
Foot-sore dancers laugh at gravity

The gift of grace unearned descends on thee
When thy work exhausted cannot harvest
Thy unknowing comes only in knowing
This is the end of thee, Thou awaits