A Metaphor

The edges are etched with rough harshness, jagged
Surfaces stitched together with bodies
Of hangers and barbed wire, irascibly ragged,
Jutting fractured woodchips, patched soddies
Of unseasoned shapes, punched into a sylvan
Depth, dried up and slouching, withering.
A daunting face, yet even simple children
Enter through the door, without dithering.
As I turn its nose, the face slams open,
Behind me a shadow slashes cold wind,
Pulling me into a shade of copen.
But I hold on to these etched edges, pinned
Though the woodchips pierce my wrists,
I take one step at a time, toward the kiss.