This limestone sculpture, this thing of grace,
is not as it appears to the naked eye or to the touch.
It is filled with holes, as if it grew up in a secluded cave.

I know quite a lot about porusness, secluded caves, and the like.

Today, I am porus, hypnotized by the steady drip, drip, drip, of my own tears,
eating me away inside, as an inverted sculpture, eroded by the drip, 
drip, drip of water from above.

Today, a touch would penetrate me, make a hole in me, where the blood 
would collect,
where my tears would never dry, a hole where light would pass through 
to expose my inside.

Today, I grieve the life of a dumb beast, a childhood of incest, 
torture, drunken screams that went on and on and on and on ...

Today, I wish I was somewhere else, that my head was populated, that 
the vine-covered door had never opened, that these silent porus tears 
of the dust of the past, could stop
falling into the vacuum of my self. (space deliberate)

Pray for me, and maybe the acid heart-rain would stop ... I hope ... 
Some day ...