Idolatry

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.