Why Did My Fingers Have A Weird Smell On Them, Even After I Washed Them Poem by James McLain

In vivid colour even now your to close before sleep,
each young imagination still is.
Death to me,
even as a young child was the then pushing of my
small finger in and out, thinking I touched it.

An inch or two down into a fresh dug grave and I smelled it.
The dirt was as clean as fresh driven snow, yet to my young
mind as young as it was, it would like children do smell it.

Children as a rule don't have outwardly dirty thoughts,
new Intel.
On the news each day I then saw,
children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, naked
all in my mind,
as clean as the dirt that my young mind, could make them.

Outside playing in my underwear as we did.
Blown up and burning as only the children could smell them.
Those few adult's to me,
as I saw them, never hid them, but flew a flag, I made them.

Finger's curling in, up towards the middle.
Then being delivered up to the middle of nowhere, I then realized.
That the soap that I vividly washed with,
could not deliver me from, what went on around it.

It was then that something inside my head snapped and all the
colour was drained from my head.
The culprit is
I could not stop it.

And it was latter I learned each night a succubus came.
Paralyzed, that feeling that a dead body is climbing on top
and have It's way as thing's such as this dreaming do.
so I stayed away from the t.v. late at night, but the finger
inside I still smelled it.