Chiseled
We come into this world
handed perfectly, from heaven
like pristine blocks of flawless marble
We've come then so as to be defined
by the dual artists of time and life;
Pain and his sister, Joy
They chisel and scrape and brush
diligently at us to reveal our true forms;
flawed yet perfect, pure yet changed
Different, yet simply who we are
not who we were meant to be;
but real and true, as true can be
And yet knowing this, we resist;
we clutch tightly at the deceit of pride
or bind on the blindfold of denial
We scrabble about on the dusty canvas
that's laid on the floor of our life's studio,
pecking, scraping for what we thought is lost
We search blindly, often frantically
for the precious chips and blocks that those twins
have peeled away; yet they're gone forever
We sometimes find and then, hopelessly,
try to patch the fissures and hollows
with the detritus our duo have left behind
A fool's errand this; a false hope
for this is merely the dust and debris
of what was; not what is, nor what can be
We must leave that dusty art behind
to learn to love what is and forget what was,
before we may find, what can truly, be
Copyright © David Brown | Year Posted 2015
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