Snakeskin

Snakeskin,
like the shape of the shadow
that used to be him
left behind.

Snakeskin,
turn you inside and outside
and nothing remains,
just an outline.

Your centre slithered off,
it floated off,
a space balloon
up to the ether oh
beat away on a wingtip

and here's my bent finger,
holding on to the string.

Snakeskin
all I have, all I hold, is
this cold leather hand
left in mine.

But it's snakeskin,
desiccated and blown
like a husk in the wind
of my mind.

I'll put it in a box
and drop it down into a hole
that's six feet under oh

but you've escaped,
you floated off,
a silver space balloon
up to the ether oh
beat away on a wingtip

and here's my bent finger,
holding on to the string,
holding on to the string.