36 - The Rib

Born from a rib torn from flesh, so it’s told-
I count yours with my finger as it drifts
Down your side- you’re frozen, ice won’t grow old.
I can grip under your rib cage, and if
With a pull I could grow you, in a mould.
You’re dead to the world but will live in me,
Thoughts of repentance guide all that I see.