The Sculptor

Each day is a

punctilious, patient punch

of hammer and chisel.

By night, I sift through the drizzle

of dust and pebbles

as conscious thought ebbs

out again to whatever

weird place from whence it flows.

The blows struck

by these tools I've chosen to carry

spare nary a flaw

and suffer no parry

or counter

ere their nightly withdraw.

The hands of an artisan

care little for partisan

petulance —

who are you,

really,

right here and now?

What weaknesses crowd the corners

of your character?

Do barracks in your brain

house biased brutes

who would constrain,

with boots on necks,

any honest reflection

or original thought?

Strike there!

Reduce your preconceptions

to rubble.

Chip away at troublesome

partiality

and double down on your desire

for a blissful reality.

Layer after layer

of ancient rock

blocks off a beautiful picture

underneath —

the stricture of ourselves

beneath these shells

which have built up

deals far more damage

than we're, at first,

willing to credit.

Now, we can make

our subtle edits,

or we can smash the thing

wide open.

There's room for

amicable disparity.

What matters most

is the clarity

of your vision —

who is the person that you're sculpting?

For what do they strive?

I may, at this point,

be an ugly,

half-carven hunk of stone,

but boy,

does the project

make me feel alive.