sustenance

I am made of meat
and the bone grown hard
protecting my meaty brain
and heart is of deepest
kind. Except sometimes
the bone nearly surfaces
man that hurts.

But it's fine. It's
just okay, I don't mind
too much. It just seems
such a human condition
to flinch from too thorough
a touch of reality. We are
made of meat, and hence:
we look mealy to eyes
that have felt
the pinch.

We are sustenance. Why, I
myself have made many meals.
Others have devoured me, parts
and whole - and left me quite
raw, and so overdone. Yet my meat
is still here, looking robust
enough to outlive
my soul.