-- Ted Hughes
When it comes down to it
Hair is afraid. Words from within are afraid.
They sheer off, like a garment,
Cool, treacherous, no part of you.
Hands the same, feet, and all blood
Till nothing is left. Nothing stays
But what your gaze can carry.
And maybe you vomit even that, like a too-much poison.
Then it is
That the brave hunger of your skull
Supplants you. It stands where you stood
And shouts, with a voice you can't hear,
For what you can't take.