Belly of Dreams

The Sculptors



oh what fine sharp edge to the hand a chisel poised
ready to move steered from the eye of its captor

what matrix of thoughts do churn and play
with putty...
or so it seems

oh fine sculptor bearing gifts of artistic flair
might your eyes behold a love so grand
to spew in numbers rhymed to...
a matrix of mystery rhythms in cascading mysteries
a labyrinth of yet greater numbers

might your rhythm bold and blaring
fold in dis array an aim and desire?

the pulse beats and bounces
the putty mold of your desire
tis a chisel what you mold
sharp and and yet frail

blind not eyes while the matrix dances
forgetting how whence it came ....

so joined in a splendor of passion...
blessings sparked such ignition
a far land ... a distant star

remembering once long ago the kiss and smile
of a mother who held the heart of a

sculptor...
who held a tool....
not to forget the hand
who wields the chisel

for love is grown with each hand the chisel poised and ready to use
yet not for a moment
each
but none
forever and never
but today
so many eyes
direct the hands
wielding a tool
for love

not pain

sculptors far and wide
eyes open
and aware
another day
has passed

where once held the mother of life

and stood upon the ground

turned away from creating destroying
molds of pain filled glory
of profit
that never gained

a moment of peace

so many eyes
so many hands
so many stars
so many lands
so many mothers
so many children
so many people

chisels they behold steered
from their eyes
clearing the matrix
a breath at a

time

and the chisels awoke
and wondered ....how did we get here...
awakened from a dream

of being a

dove

a poem

a memory

by day​