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Petrified MAG
The bottoms of my feet are black,
Scorched from forest fires long ago.
My teeth are rotted, my face is scarred,
Carved into a joyous smile,
And in my eyes and down my cheeks
Run the deepest grain you’ll ever see.
My wormwood arms stretch toward the sky,
As if I dance, don’t ask me why.
“She’s solid!” they boast,
Yet inside I’m corrupt, corroded,
Infested to the core.
“She’s sturdy!” they say,
Yet they’ve severed my roots
And mangled my branches.
“She’s grand!” they cry,
Yet they’ve skinned me and
Turned me like stone.
I am petrified,
And they call it beauty
© Anonymous
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