Why do I think that to be worthy of attention I must shrink myself down?
Maybe it’s because all literature presents itself as carpentry
And I want to be a poem to you.
I’m mimicking the artists and alchemists
A carving and refining process
A labouring effort
A series of dissolutions to revelations
I want the sphinx under the rock face
The marble goddesses drawn out from their boulder beds
Hacked away to smooth serenity
The heart of the matter and the crux at the centre
The grain of truth and the holy grail
I am my own crucible
I plunge depths hoping to hand you a pearl
For you can’t hang the ocean from your earlobes
As I hang on your lips
Gathering each dropped word like a jewel
You are treasured already
I keep you locked in my chest
Can I act as your mirror and reflect back your glow?
All the poets have told me I must
But your sun deserves stars not a moon.
I would part the seas for you.
But what are waves to your flames?
You warm me with one flash of your eyes
I search in the dust for starlight
I sand my surface
Smoothing the cracks and craters
All I can find is fool
I scatter breadcrumbs behind me
Hoping they will lead me to myself