I’d cut you out
Toss you to the starving wolves
Let them pick apart your lumbering mass
But even under your mask
You’re insignificant at best.

Leave you to your own
Let you fester despite your growth
Because no matter what you do,
In eyes that stare back at you
In all that you stir and stew
With propaganda songs,
And protesting vigils;
Assembly halls full of sycophants.
When the lights go out,
You’re all alone.

No you see the truth is:

All that you are,
And could ever be,
Is benign.

Your tongue makes a precise incision,
Words like a scalpel, cutting with precision,
Bypassing my systems like a jewel thief,
Grasping hold of my heart.

Are you a bard or a thief?
It’s hard to tell the difference—
When you play my strings like a guitar,
Out of mind, yet in tune with the violence.
Your eyes direct like storm clouds,
Twisting my image until it suits your need.

Just make a decision—
I’m exhausted with pretense,
Starving for substance,
Why is it that no one replaces what they take?

And if I were a bodega,
I’d stock only the finest farewells,
So you couldn’t buy happiness,
While pawning my world to the highest bidder.
You thought me caramel, but I tasted bitter,
Spoiled long before you spun a web.
I’m not dancing to your tune; the music is dead.

It’s  a grey sky with hint of  clouds
Warm humid air along the atmosphere
Upbeat day
Enjoying the heat

Stubborn steeled reserve
Grit stone and colder than an ice storm
It’s taken all these fine lines
To curve you into shapes
Tracing fingers along the surface of a smooth face

You keep with your attrition
Battle me for eons
Trample our traditions
But I’ll keep my hands hewing at your ramparts
Until I can see your soul flowing like a river
And who would dare tear your heart from me
If you had the axe, my love, would you hew into me?

Stubborn, but you’re folding
Like a bad hand at the table.
I’ll wager myself for your honor
If you could bluff me with your silence,
Knowing inside there’s a violence
Magma rising to the surface,
And cursing through your words shipped
Erupting from your tempest temper

Is that hard to see?
That these carpenter hands
Bend to the curve of your structure
To make art of your luster,
A statue maker worshipping Athena
Now hew like a great oak
Let me fall away,
Tell me that I’m nothing
When you’re weeping in a steadfast free-fall.

If there is a God, he whispered 'garlic bread' to Peter Kay
and 'Yellow' into the ear of a younger Coldplay.  
He gave Picasso a brand new angle
and told Isosceles the deep secrets of the triangle.  
He opened the eyes of a struggling Van Gogh
and calmed Will Tell Jnr. in the face of his father's levelled bow.
God's whisper and touch are as present now as ever,
just heed the prompts of our ever-present creator.