Hewn
Wick and flame by stone and dust--
These war-torn hands do as they must,
To build it up and tear it down.
Your frozen antlers scrape the ground.
A tapestry to call my name,
Those locks of woven, horsehair mane.
I left the fear with ember glow,
Learned from soul which way to go.
That piercing sound above the noise,
Did beckon me with timeless joy.
~t
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