The Sculptor
I talked to God
And every nimrod
I surfed on my imaginary waves
I wished for the perfect form
Something besides the norm
Dare I carve on stone?
Or mould and cast on clay?
There, on the ground I lay…
To which god should I atone?
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Do I focus on beauty?
Like the bust of Nefertiti
Or be a devotee of the gods
Like Saint Teresa’s Ecstasy
Or follow the path of Hedone
And sculpt away, all alone.
I toiled away at the details
All there, for who wish to see.
Even at a distance, to impress
Who just used their periphery.
For every chisel I made,
For every mould I cast,
I grew anxious..
Every mistake was precious!
Juxtaposing every move
And contrasting with every style
A little too Gothic? Not enough Byzantine?
Maybe I should try Renaissance
And be more Michelangelo’s David?
Still unaware of what I was forging, under stress
Weighed down by role models, causing duress
I didn’t recognize any beauty,
or any soulful spirituality.
I stripped away any pretense
And followed my heart
So I moulded, to what made sense
To myself, to my art.
