The sound of skin scraped across the universe


Soaked for days,

Scraped and raw;

Stretched taut across

The wood belly’s maw.


Desiccated and gray;

Resounding thrum.

Pleasure from chaos,

Is the sound of a drum.


Thin but opaque,

Seemingly strong;

The drum skin’s story

A fiction, not wrong.


Voice of the beast;

No grave, no rhyme;

Screaming forever

Through endless time.


Hide spans across

The corpse of a tree:

The drum you beat

Is made of me.

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