To be carved out
like a mountain
for the soul’s marble,
quarrying the memories
from the black earth

The dark chisel of night
strikes the sleeping
stone— a splinter of
starlight,
a moon-white scar.
I hear the weeping of the
pickaxe, the solitary miner
singing
in my deepest veins.

And the silence cracks
open, a river of white stone,
a stallion of polished moonlight
that rears from the black earth.
The poem, a wounded bird,
trembles free from the rock,
carrying the world’s raw weight
and the cold scent of stone
dust