Getting up from bed

I know that somewhere there's the fingerlings waiting for my parched pores
They are shriveled and irritated with each attempt I make at using my own oils to moisturize them
Sometimes you need to dip your naked body in the remnants of a lake
Wait in them as nature dwindles their elevated state
I get more air, but my skin becomes arid with each foot shaved off.
By the time you find my body, I'm scabby and drowned.
Eyes closed as if heaven were merely constant replays of my dreams
My limbs are laid strewn on the silt, imprinting my figure into the basin.
Sometimes my lover sleeps in the imprint so that she may cuddle with me once more
Who is my lover?
Crustaceans who have feasted upon my flesh.
Vegetation that is preparing my particular finger for a valley.
And my first threesome, the sun and the moon who take turns illuminating my presence.
I do not hold a silent smile at death
No one has the muscle memory to smile at death.
Instead bugs canvas my insides and create subtle fascics that fool even the most cunning of mountain lions
Even animals do not eat the possessed
I remain there till finally a Lazarus like state strikes me like a misappropriated whimsy
I get up only to find myself fall apart with each step.
The bugs scurry out of my two entrances
And from there on I took three more steps
On the third step my delicate legs burst into debris.
The upper half of my body is dragged by first my fingers
Then my wrists
Finally my chin and chest.
A whimsical breeze blows away my face, completing the latest artistic installment I had to complete.