- Non-Erotic Poetry
- The Sculpture
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He searches for each subtle clue
of what his art will be.
A flaw in fabric, a knot in wood
a crack inside the stone
He sees all this and then he looks
deeper for a hint
Of golden fleck, inside the granite,
or a swirl of grain, in wood.
Expose the golden heart cast,
there, within the bronze.
Pound strength into this molten steel
forged from iron's rust.
The artisan makes me his craft
and creates Pygmalion's form,
My lover clothed in workingman's skin
shapes this golem's heart.
To have his touch on my formless soul,
moulded in his hands
And feel as his breath on my marble lips
warms them for his kiss,
Only my craftsman loves me enough
to humanize this mud.
This exquisite life can only be lived
as a product of his mind.
- COMMENTS
Bridget69about 19 years agoBeautifully describes how it would feel to be so carefully molded and be created from such loving and attentive hands. Loved it!
impressiveabout 19 years agoArt from an alternate perspective. Excellent imagery! ~Imp
Anonymousover 19 years agoWow:
"This exquisite life can only be lived
as a product of his mind."
You give good mind-job, lady. This stuff is amazing.
