Pisaries Creator

My skin has been picked raw.
There is no more to pick.

There is no meaning in this passage
I have read again.
The words are over 300 years old.
Back when this author wrote it, 
slaves were bought,
sometimes traded for one another.

My eyes remain open and tired.
I feel twice at a time,
like water and bread,
stars and moon,
ketchup and fries,
and if you are not from the good old USA,
then mayonnaise or mustard.

Emotions find a home on black furniture,
where my butt has sat,
and my body has rested.
Both have worn off the black sheen,
it is now brown.
Some might call it tan.

The era might be the Roman empire,
maybe the time when Genghis Khan conquered. 
He was a calculated man,
knowing all kinds of addition and subtraction,
situations and solutions that wouldn’t
occur to me.
I could be part of the first paragraph
he mentioned over 300 years ago,
of how fate has a way,
the tight grip it possesses.
There is not fairness in
my ancestors living and leaving nothing.
My heart has been punished. 
A stranger left a message,
It doesn’t mean anything to me.

Nothing is clear.
The tallest bottle is empty.