off my arms
so, with the bumps
I grew wings
they chopped off
my feet
so, with the stumps
I grew springs
they chopped up
my words
into dense clouds
of smoke and vapor
so, I threw ink on stained
scrap paper
and line after line
created a shrine
they chopped that up too
splintering all the pews
so, I built up an ark
with the splinters, they left
and headed out west
over the horizon
into the sunset
of marmalade
where I’m not touched
by their blade