07-12-2015, 02:21 AM
Think you are very close with this edit, if you want to only bring it out in the end, then only mention skin in the end, keep the reader in the dark, let them think you are talking about a woman or something, make them suffer a bit - here is a suggested edit, I love the concept.
Skin is like paper, dry, etched with soft grain.
Delicate and somehow pleasant to the touch.
Dressing us in a fine cloth of warm damask.
SkinShe wraps us, casing, folded gently just an idea...
Caressing us like broad arms, protective and caring.
Curving and taut, tailored to the inch in fit and cut.
Skin isSo fragile, yet supple and lithe, laid over flesh
Bent and twisted it iswhen held, like water in a creek bed.
Breaking like a butterfly's wings, dashed by the wind.
Skin is browned and black,when blistered and burnt.
Layered from beneath, fire given life’s touch.
Peeling like ribbons, freed of the vestige of thews.
Skin is so thin and slight, so easily sundered and broken
It cracks suddenly like a fine china, in pale, slender splinters.
It is dashed like an innocent dream upon the harsh dawn.
Skin carries a tale authored, in forlorn coloured inks of pain and regret.
The days of its owner is scored in words, pale and mute.
A life of times on a surface, laid bare for one with eyes.
Skin is like paper, dry, etched with soft grain.
Delicate and somehow pleasant to the touch.
Dressing us in a fine cloth of warm damask.
SkinShe wraps us, casing, folded gently just an idea...
Caressing us like broad arms, protective and caring.
Curving and taut, tailored to the inch in fit and cut.
Skin isSo fragile, yet supple and lithe, laid over flesh
Bent and twisted it iswhen held, like water in a creek bed.
Breaking like a butterfly's wings, dashed by the wind.
Skin is browned and black,when blistered and burnt.
Layered from beneath, fire given life’s touch.
Peeling like ribbons, freed of the vestige of thews.
Skin is so thin and slight, so easily sundered and broken
It cracks suddenly like a fine china, in pale, slender splinters.
It is dashed like an innocent dream upon the harsh dawn.
Skin carries a tale authored, in forlorn coloured inks of pain and regret.
The days of its owner is scored in words, pale and mute.
A life of times on a surface, laid bare for one with eyes.