You gaze up from the roots of an ebony tree
you whittle at my skin,
chisel to grain.
veneer falls away,
a jacket to which it’s akin.
through pockets of bark are rays
that shimmer in vain.
against time, they can’t stay
because you whittle at my skin, chisel to grain.
shavings curl to the floor,
splintering you with sin
i fear i might be a bore.
smooth planks train
with hope to be a connoisseur.
when you whittle at my skin,
chisel to grain.
at the center, the pith.
dark coffee to the chest of a puffin,
ebony scalds chilled steel,
smouldering my essence to grit.
