Poem Hunter
Poems
The Sculptor
(29 September 1970 / South Africa)

The Sculptor

I was every grain of sand over
which the ocean rolled
exposed and raw
in the acceptance of
my fate which
was in the hands of the tides...

You, the artist,
saw potential beauty
in my cool aloofness...
you took me and put fire to
me - equal parts of fire and wind
to one part of me.
You unlocked the beauty within
by blowing me into an exquisite
glass sphere, an object to
admire... reflecting light
and love,
but being utterly fragile
in its perfection....
perfect in your eyes,
your hands -

yet this uncertain existence of
measuring up against
other objects d'art cracks
the surface,
letting me wish to be the sand again
and give myself over
to the tides.... for of that I am
at least certain,
the steady mauling being more
gentle than my heart
slipping from your hands and
shattering at your feet.

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Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Comments (1)

From start to finnish a holding read, penned by a sentient heart with true and burning feeling thankyou I enjoyed Paris 10