New Skin

You tore my flesh away revealing bone,
and all I was, a skeleton alone.
The spiders came to make their summer nest.
They crawled inside my skull, into my breast.
Among my ribs they cobwebs quickly wove—
dressed me in white—I was a treasure trove
of many legged things till winter came.
Inside me was no warmth, no living flame.
I was the ruins of a spiders' hold
which had no strength against the bitter cold.
Then in the warming world upsprang strange shrooms,
which waiting in the damp, beshadowed rooms
of my forgotten corpse pierced through the veil
of spider silk which like a tattered sail
clung to their rising stalks to taste the wind,
and for the second time my bones were skinned.

And then you came again, returned to me.
The salty air of some forgotten sea
clung to your clothes and hinted at strange tales
of cannons in the night and mighty whales.
You came again and clothed me with new skin.
Anew and clean, I stood, freed from my sin.