The carpenter’s hands are bleeding blood

The carpenter’s hands are bleeding blood
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
He carves and smooth’s it to fit a tawdry groove
A dovetail joint he shares with you. And you approve.

But still you complain; his soul it has a splintered
-Stairwell, where nothing ever is newly charted…
You say; he gazes with knotted eyes spiralling outward…
Into a space of stars, sawdust sutured.

His carpenter’s hands are bleeding blood
His forefathers arms cradled in lave dust
He is now at a distance from the sharp end of the plane.
If only he could, uproots, uncouple just one carriage from the train
Derail the distance in your discontentment, love, once again!

But still you complain; his work has no honesty?
Or shame, you cry like a gull, whose ocean has no-sea-wave.
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
Is but flotsam; is but some malnourished driftwood.

A splintered
-Stairwell, where nothing ever is ever newly sculptured…