Mine eyes, how they linger
on these carvings of rock and stone.
How they bulge from sockets
that suck; craving stillness and light.
How they question the birds
that flap, and tap their feet,
amongst the dust
of turmoil and turned density;
rising with a crumb
only to gawp as the grain
tumbles elsewhere.
The pick-axe is a loaded,
sharpened beast and it leans
to me.
Splinters make my vision
wet and sharp
and the sparks start flying
when I compose myself.