I sprinkled cinnamon outside my door,
whispered to the frames,
"only let in warmth,
keep their laughter outside
in the cold, where all things mournful
belong".
I wrap myself in a fisherman's cardigan,
Making clay out of tear-dried salt
and this divine earth that raised me.
I hear them jeering while I'm carving
all these stones with blistered hands,
Chisels rusted - they spent too long
curled, sleeping, unused in the moss.
They say I'm just shaping rocks
in silence,
for a game nobody wants to play,
a forlorn girl
trying to conjure gold
in a foundation poured strong enough
to hold a coliseum,
its rotunda gleaming with hand stacked dreams.
I have to believe,
if you just... keep... building,
someday, someone will see.
Even if the beauty is found
in a solitary, once lovely column
...when it's ancient.
When it's crumbling.