Chisel

Your strength, 
as I try to chip away those bits of you,
breaks my hammer.
My hands bleed from the effort, 
trying to make the dust at your feet into new pieces 
of a new you. 

It is late and it is dark, 
and I burn the stars onto my soul,
fabricating moments.

Your pedestal is high, and it strains my voice to talk up to you,
so I am quiet now.

Lisa Pasquin's Questions:

1) I am worried that the second stanza doens't fit well with the rest of the poem. Comments? Ways to improve it, or should I take it out competely?

2) The wording of the third stanza is also concerning me. I think there are too many words in there. Comments? Suggestions?