inviolate

The line

around self is absolute,
and ought to be inviolate.
Because it's not the prettiest hue,
(indigo might be) but it's
a better fit. Above, beyond
we shade into invisible. Ghost-lit,
our stains and whites aglow,
and higher still, x-rayed to bone
revealing something miserable.
But underneath, within that line
sit all the colors beautiful,
'til we hit red. Below, beneath
we rise and surge in furies,
freak and pound and burst
from groin to heart to head
in urge by instinct cursed,
keyed-up and beaten down
until we have become

divisible.