Skip to main content

To Sculpt a Poem


Sometimes, I wish I was Michelangelo. 

I wish I could see the angel,

Before I set her free from the stone, 

My mind.


But alas, I am no sculptor nor painter.

Us writers, we are magicians, mages and warlocks.

Conjuring words from thin air,

Stringing them together as we go.


Sometimes, 

I wish I could peek at her tender hands through the uncut rock.

So I may chip away stone day and night to carve them to perfection.

But, I possess no hammer, chisel nor rake.


Sounds trapped in letters.

Letters stitched to form words.

Words which I must now weave,

Into a warm winter blanket that shall not exist in the real world.

The real world.. where it's cold.


Ah yes. Words.

They are the only tools I wield.

How do I ever see my creation like Michelangelo saw his angels,

When I am being asked to embrace her,

Before I pour life to her very inception?

- P.S

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular Posts

Empathy's Demise

It's quite wondrous really, How clocks around the world are ticking right now in perfect synchrony. Wondrous how even in such a large world,  We are all nakedly defined by a common present.  A common, now. Wondrous how the sun is setting right this moment, In one corner of the world. While it rises in another, all at the same time. . Perhaps it is all that's left that unites us through the present. Only the sun bears witness to the capering of man,  For the world is simply too large for us. Large enough to let a man in Paris grab an afternoon Latté,  While a woman in Casablanca runs to the sweet embrace of her lover. . Large enough that the loudest sound you hear is this poem, and my voice, Sheltered from the shelling beyond the sea. Large enough that at this very second, There's a little girl with ringing ears, Looking through the rubble, For her dead mother. . Now, when my voice too goes quiet.  I implore you, tell me what is louder. Is it the luxury of silenc...
1 comment
Read more

Moretti's Café

Audio tracks add to the reading experience.  (They are mood synced. Press play when they appear.) Setting down his book on the table, Malcolm rocked the spoon back and forth in his cup of earl grey, stirring up the contents before he took a long deep sip with closed eyes.  The shadows cast by the nearby buildings marched forth inch by inch into the little cafe tucked into Piazza di Santa Croce, 14. He shifted his little stool to face the window and sipped away at his tea. The vapours of which rose like clouds of cotton in the dying sunlight.  It bothered him to not know where everyone on the street was headed. Every pedestrian outside seemed to walk with such a sense of purpose and determination as if they would perish if their feet touched the pavement another second. Unless one stopped to notice each person’s face and gait, there was no real difference at all. Just cold pillars of such determination wandering aimlessly on the streets. One went left. Two went right...
Post a Comment
Read more

Adieu to Heaven

Why must I leave?  If this place I'm going to is as nice as you say.  I'm already there. But I know, everything will be okay.  I remember the days when the rumbling of the skies made the ground shake. Still, everything was okay because you'd tell me so. And you sang to me as I snuggled into your lap. I'll remember the memory of a sunset golden, glittering in the moist grass as my paws chase a lone blue butterfly. By my side, your comforting voice of bliss, warmer than the sun itself. I'll remember chasing your feet every summer noon, and sinking into your arms while we lay in the green meadow by the little hill. All out of breath. I'll carry the memories of the golden sun, the soft embrace of your hands and the voice I call heaven. And when I go, I'll have known that I was your good boy every moment of my life.  Till the very end. ~Klaus W.S 20-8-23
2 comments
Read more