skinning song

glasses sinking in the glut
my pockets full of seas the sun to be
and will as we, the shards to me,
and will as we, to ever
be so free, to be that
all you see and sand the marks,
and fill the pocks, blanch the blush
and tear the brush: swirling strings of dermis
in the wind my salt of salt, my mirrored see
and will as we, unseen