It's official

My bones are elastic,
fantastic and transformed,
the kind of way your bread molds into
fungus overtime,
sitting there patiently
to rot away without activity.

My veins? They creep their way,
through my legs and
sumptuous thighs,
webbing and threading their EVERY which ways
to the sky, and perhaps to infinite.
Manifested infinite.

Geez, I am so misinformed,
by habits that I've forced
upon-my-self.
The easy way out easily becomes
the easiest way to be suckered in and engrossed
to a pulp.

And now my poor joints
bounce, reflecting my dear mother
in snappy, crackly redundance.
And they dance, and dance, and dance
out of place.
Banished into space.