I.
I pressed my cheek to the cold marble,
I could hear my heart violently trying to kiss my ribcage,
my body had been carved into a gargoyle,
distorted and twisted with age,
tinted with clay and charcoal,
tamed to spit out salt and rage.
II.
You were an artisan, your masterpiece
was on my torso: purple, blue – all rich,
and when the Eagle was ordered to cease,
I was left with a grotesque, ethereal itch,
but we learnt something with each new crease:
worship shoves both parties into a ditch.
III.
A silhouette does not reveal a cavernous system,
decay runs in the grey cinder blocks, deep inside,
I wish to shed the rot gnawing at each skin cell,
even though I was the one who had it prescribed,
I never thought I’d be the bullet in this schism,
I guess this is what happens when forces within collide.
