“It’s a process,” she tells me,
“You’ve got to keep at it.”
A handful of clay,
starts out monochromatic.
“Don’t worry,” she promises,
“That’s how it starts.”
Until I put in some effort,
I guess this is art?
And my work seems unlawful,
I’m not meant to be
so artistically sculpting,
it’s not about me.
I strive for perfection,
a problem, with this…
Because how can I find
imperfection in bliss?
As one cedes to the other,
my love starts to fade.
I can’t look at my masterpiece.
What have I made?
Spontaneity, dimming…
The lights are too low
All my work was for nothing,
what do I have to show?
Just an empty container
that knows not what it does
Serves its purpose quite happily,
and all because
Of a little bewitching…
I’ve sculpted its heart.
For the sake of its beauty…
can I tear it apart?
Monochromatic means it all has one wavelenght.
ReplyDeleteThat kicked me out for a second.
Very serene sing-songical like, to me at least.