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I reside where stone is thick.
If you hear wind whistling, that's my script.
That's my cliff! Quit chiseling.
Might grant you a wish. Is this a thing
that happens to humble carvers of the earth's surface
or are you flirting with dark powers that sometimes enact curses?
And I'd purse lips if I weren't ethereal,
the way you worry my interior.
Any boon you seek, you say.
Want it? Got it. Fade away...
My trade has never been a fit match,
so my future's always looking pitch black.
Waist-deep in this fish fat,
I don't really want to swing this pick axe.
I want to be high-minded in a large home,
muse about the uncarved stone,
not chewing on a little bit of charred bone.
We want a world of our own, with
gold steps on the stairwell,
exotic fruits in the hair gel,
skin the color of caramel,
and a toilet that looks like a carousel.
Once my account is full of mils,
am I gonna feel more fulfilled,
or change the course and pull the wheel and
ingest the pill, phasers set to kill.
I'm a prove that I don't love anybody,
and give myself the power of a governing body
while maintaining selfhood is second nature.
So take a little echinacea for your upset dysplasia,
'cause I don't care how you live.
I'm beyond it, my brow is a mountain ridge.
Put your chisel down
Let your hammer go
I had a ridged brow when you wandered up.
Each elevation I conjured up
at your behest intensified it.
What a mess. You so soon derided
floods and rains after having been them
that you can't possibly recall cloud's dominion over sunbeams and where suns send them
from when you were the sun.
If you want the mountains at your mercy,
here's your chisel, have it done.
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