He is not a sheep
Nor is he the shepherd
He is not the clay.
Nor is he the sculptor
He is not the painted face
Nor is he the golden mirror.
He is no jewel
Nor is he the blindness of its glitter.
My beloved can take a million guises
The sparkle of each coloring me a different color.

My soul is fractured
The pieces lie
Broken in your pocket
Throw them
In the skull garden
Of your home
I will not complain
I never had you
Your words are cool lyric
While what I utter
Is like steam
Rising from my melting
Body and Bones
Do not think this poem
Is dedicated to you
We are two pens
One writing the story
The other seeking to
Blot out the words
With ink-daggers
And the argument between the two
Is what this symphony is made of.