The Grey

Filth in the grey,
the way you say
everything.
The mouth
a hollow bole
of tree
scooped and filled
with writhing mites,
parasites.
Not enough to speak
of past,
the lines of it etched
in your skin
reveal,
expose.
Deeds supposed long gone
remain -
stains
in faded green and blue,
gang tattoo.
Can you clean
your filth away
by bleating,
prating,
freedom, light,
self esteem,
now?
As your days seep away,
beneath the last strata
of dermal layers
lie
the ink of
every day and night,
street or path,
blow and bruise,
received or given.
Like cracks in
ancient whakairo,
through to bone
and through bone,
each line remains
until those very bones
decompose.



whakairo means carving