One Love

I, who worked him into a sculpture
of perfection; carving him an inch every night -
I, who tossed a fish at his sight -
had only wanted to be worshipped.
In my being a worshipper, I was,
I was it. And I was.
And then I threw this sculpture from a height:
I was scared of love.

Broken, it lay abandoned
but for the vulture on the top -
What was it? Who was it?
I reduced him to a vulture next,
a vulgar appetite, 
scavenging what might
have become love.