Sculptors
Sculptors
Beauty painted not of thyself, Yet purest in thine image Transfigures memorials Into galleries of decisions
Peer into future mirrors Reflecting how their creations are steered Weaving the tale of distresséd love The same that disfigured our dove
Breeding cooperation and confusion Painting red unto green and bronze The oils stain their plaques, Seeping to heart; invisible but never gone
Leaping interpretations before me; And before many.
Let others content themselves With sinewy stone and Bronze and bones and Pirouettes owned By the frozen dancing, Captured by the chisel's prancing,
But to whose grave
Might the garden mine?
Those who mind their grave
Only seeking thine.
Posted Jun 15, 2025, 2:57 AM UTC
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