Death of Me

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.

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