Illuminated

Those others –

they’re not you.

You see me in a different light

because I am illuminated.

I am a fool –

I froth and spill,

my vessel a drunkard’s tankard,

but I would chisel away at myself,

pick my bones clean,

revealing whatever’s left.

You could take it or leave it,

leave me barren,

shivering cold on plutonian shore,

in Arctic waste,

but I know you’d capitalise,

come back for more –

not enough to taste.

You could sculpt me,

pulp me,

I’m formless

except for my desire,

my body a hull

haunted by joy

and an animism

urging me on

to climb higher and higher

and carry you with me.