Moving Skin Poem by royness ( ' ' )

Your head - huge, impossible -
sticks out from the wall,
as though you had somehow got
stuck
while trying to climb through.

Except –
on the other side there is nothing.
This head is mounted
on a shield of bronze. These antlers
are dead wood. It is not blood
but sawdust
that drips from your wounds.

Taxis Derma – the art
of moving skin. Once,
you were the pride of the school.

We students come and go –
you have outlasted many.

Outlasted,
but not outlived. The dust
settles on your pelt -
caught
between two worlds,
you stare at the walls through
glass eyes, rheumy with dirt.