my skin believes in fables.
it prickles in the nighttime,
soothed by the crackling hiss of fire
warmed by the way old crones
weave mystery from the mundane.
my bones are atheists.
they sense their degradation,
feel themselves grow fragile
brittle and ready to break.
they know no god but entropy.
my mind is undecided.
it swims in molecules and bathes in electricity,
not understanding its own workings,
parsing the outside into its smallest parts,
awed by the fury of the whole.