I found a carving made of wood A carving I made and Never really understood The shape was awfully made And yet at the time Emitted an aura that felt good The raw quality, The way light fell on it, At the time I could only think The carving was perfect, The way that it stood.
I found a wood carving that I hid Away from my mind So that I could bid Farewell to the misplaced notches and indents That surfaced on the carving. Why did I leave pieces here And cut off parts there? What experience did I have in carving Such an obscene piece? Of myself, the carving, I would rid But if only I could Forget what I did What I carved What I was amid But I cannot
The reason I didn't understand The decisions I made Was because I understood the decisions I made.
There are parts to this poem drafted in my mind and yet I carved them. I consider reattaching them but what effect will that have to my misshapen poem?