Mason

The first thing I saw was the Mason’s face

Lined with dust

As he cracked my eyes open with his chisel

The wind stung my skin as he stripped me naked

My hands still chained in a bed of my own making

He washed eons of dust out of my hair with a wire brush and file

All the while I watched the crags of his face for signs of home

Waited for my arms to be free to hold him

My hands to be free to hold him

My fingertips to be free to hold him

Why else would he have me reaching?

This is in keeping with my nature

This wrinkled lip is just a mirror of his features

He couldn’t give me life

But I’ll die for a lot longer than he did