Mourn Needless Loss

All those poems I never wrote you are my lost beloved children. Born a stillborn birth never to be known, upon this earth. Never to be raised upon fledgling childhood dais. Why has fate shown such crushing bias? Carved out are quarried blocks of fractured lesser stone. Where are fine flawless marble blocks sculptural pure pieces? Scattered left crumbling rotting in their bedrock. Cry Cry Lament for all my lost children. Cheated right of birth so often those of noble neglected line. Tearing pain of loss strikes a ragged dissonant note; ransom paid at extravagant price. Loss felt comparable to loss of limb. Artistic body left incomplete rendered less ethereal capable on lip of chasm. Lost beyond recovery essence never to be retrieved. Often diligent committed day ideas come slip away. Gone past brink of reach search proves poignant. Post-mortem is pointless. Consider given opportunity circumstances available time. Have we achieved anything of remark? Though how we mourn all those lost unborn works. Stone cutter with skill and care cunningly carved out blocks. Using time. Age. Old techniques. Patience. Combined with muscle. State of art tools. Only to see potentially brilliant gift left scattered. Discarded. Lying fallow. Creativity dried up shriveled shriven shrinkage. Motive precision fades is receding into void. Rebirth must begin upon latter day. Artist has gone leaving the gate of heart open. Who will come in to pick up his chisel? Copyright © Terence George Craddock http: //www.poemhunter.com/terence-george-craddock/