Pummels, shock and turn elevates the dust
throws and thrust of chisel, power hammer,
we never were apart and dealt with what we must
stone against your breast layers in my clast.
We both stand looking at each other,
lines opaque bassets under our heavens light
but one of us doesn't move, stays same - farther
hands are numbing in brighter tired sight.
There is always picking, cleaning after to do
end of day never a routine just there - next,
today painted red mixed with some blue
people notice as it tends perplexed.
They ask is she finished or something new?
The reply is no, "she is here! Get a clue."
Thourn Whaul
