Within
Sculpting in a chaotic corner
the parts that don't belong, must go
Free the work, the prisoner within.
As I chisel out the excess
the not-sculpture bits of stone
Like chains they fall away
I step back for a farther look
At form, slowly emerging
Where does it come from?
Monday, 27 July 2020
This is the fourth poem in Les Mots sans Images, a series of original poems.
I post a new poem every waning quarter moon.