Dead Wood.. Poem by James McLain

It is not delusional
Femininity, left them long ago.
They work with wood, it is not soft.
It is cured by men, in your soft parts.
The more you scream,
the more they soften the wood.
Defrocked, your wool is bleached.
Softness is not an impression left in bars that steal
your breath, thighs depressed by weight
oppressed in nightmares spread open.
The mouth once yours is not now to speak from
it harbors dreads new fear, dead seed forever spilled
inside to grow, more of them
once like your self...
One day spent, ten thousand to grow, into wood
deadwood so much harder than you
soft as pulp.........................................................................