A blank, bismuth face, fluttering eyelids
Chipping away with a chisel and tears
The wax that dribbles down the smooth marble
Etching a canyon into the leather with nothing else
Worship, cry tears of golden ichor, as
A hand reaches into the quicksand,
Pulling out mud-covered digits
Dripping white plaster, lifelike and mesmerizing.
The sculpture, the statue, and on it, the pupils that stare through you
It’s messy, shedding off a little more of myself
In hopes of reaching godhood.