My ego is dying; its claws
scrape me back to bare bones
that taste of source
I see myself best in blackened
feathers – your face always
seems much fuller
than the one I wear for you now
My edges meld into patchwork
invitations; my gaps into creations –
vague-solid salient impressions
The concept plays
with my shape.
Until I am an ocean built of ships;
A mountain made of metaphors;
And a body pierced by passions.