when he was carving my soul.
I thought I would make a dream come true,
a human destiny and my own world.
Dew is mud, capturing my feet,
poison is nesting in broken eggs.
Word-maggots bearing narrow vertebra
sneering midget, so that's what he wants.
The chisel was dancing in God's hands,
when he was carving my face.
I came with great plans, to a field of poppies,
my past was gleaming, following me right behind.
Maybe, if I saw, a real pearl,
covered with a word the colour of milk.
Maybe, if I took a step, from a snail's cold shelter
onto a warm palm of a hand, onto a steaming hot brownie.
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