And if I were he, I would cry: I wish I had your
nails
I wish I had your hammer.
There are no finer rails,
Than your iron tendons,
No better limbs than those
That reach for the sky’s skewed air;
From the bitter dust,
That bred you a god’s mural.
There has been no cup,
That could hold more sanctity.
There has been no hand
That could ever mold you from the
dirt.

Words by: Torr Fassett