Poem: Self-Portrait as Saint Bartholomew

Self Portrait as Saint Bartholomew

See how I lie,
Curled in a ball
Beneath this nest of blankets.
See how I bleed,
Heart stripped from body,
Hope stripped from soul,
Very existence raw and exposed
Like the skin stripped from muscle
On Saint Bartholomew.

Where is the man who once was so proud?
Where is the man who once was so strong?
Where is the man who was once so happy?
Where is the man who loved you so well?

Where is the man I once was?

That man is gone.
He lies in a ball
Beneath a pile of blankets,
Slowly,
Surely
Bleeding to death
While you go on your celestial way.

(c) J S Phillips