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S is for Sculptor
The Sculptor's Last Angel
His calloused hand caressed the scrolling lines
Veined in the bone white marble of her tomb.
His patient chisel, practiced at the task,
Sought out the cloistered form that stone confines
And holds imprisoned in its pregnant womb.
He rendered from a stubborn milky mask
A poignant angel by his soul conceived,
Celestial angel to himself bequeathed.
His last breath given out for her to own,
Lies beckoning inside her tender breast.
Her ardent eyes seize from the marble stone
A heart that's long been buried in its chest.
Her wings await his final passage home
From this damp bed where he must take his rest.
That's true inspiration Ute! I adore your daily poems
ReplyDeleteThanks Sue
DeletePerfect poem, Ute. You have a gift.
ReplyDeleteThank you Julie
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