I was assembled in carful manner,
like an artist with a brutal wrist
learning to be gentle at the hand
With his fingers a stroke per touch was liquid fire... and the ambers bled.

In an age of chaste- my uniform and I elaborated together,
right before the architect checked in.

To measure our dogma
do we have the skill of a plank?
Grown enough, he'd engage me at force.

The utensils of my porcine frame had
taken attention- and tention
off from his sore eyes.
Across the alley walls where we wildly grind, contrary
to a man compelled.
And like a beast, he took liberty
in between walls my temple built,
and broke them back down
to a soundly fever.
© Salamasina Talaepa