A Poet And A Sculptor

Cutting to core, to beauty's barest bone, Chipping and chopping does work a sculptor, Probing in passion a huge chunk of stone, Lost in deep search he's a fine creator. A poet whilst chases gossamer thoughts, Envisioning how his muse might well look, Linking up like a child his dotted dots, None is cooking from a recipe book. The sculptor's strokes never in silence speak, The poet's words whilst take off on their wings, And metered when rhythm from chaos seek, The readers whilst bring in valued meanings. Oft yet, both struggle on a thankless day, And maiden muse when moans: O there's no way! _____________________________________________________ Sonnets | 01.07.14 |