Perfection
In clay is cast thoughts and emotions in blend;
In fire is melted and forged the needed mend;
Every crude design must find a mode and form
That is entrancing, expressive and cozily warm.
He was fidgety all through the passing hours:
His sculpting hand had failed the facial covers.
A rare chosen task ,chiselled and cut so well
Till the rock found the contented intent swell
But the bust still did not define the inner kind,
The artifice of what was in his clear, fixed mind;
The tools chipped, hewed and traced the move,
Yet it put up a nonchalant look ,nothing to prove ;
On the pedestal now stood a statue, in all might
And stature,well to get the great applause aright;
But the sculptor, within his self sought the cause,
Aloof from the creative world, he had the pause.
It was certain : that was not the image of his cut;
Something improper ,had just come out in a rut;
A true semblance close, but sans the live spirit,
A hard set face, with a look, blank and cold on it
The renown, faith or the success it had brought,
Hurt him more as the divine pleasure he sought
Was denied ,despite his honest work to impress;
Moments were lost in deep agony and distress.
On a moonless night he broke his own creation,
And slyly left to trace the cause of his privation ;
The art-realm abounds with finesse and reality
But it's dwellers are close to madness and futility
Nature's real replica in copy, often goes astray--
As the divine experience has a momentary stay;
Like a tangent ,art may touch even the virtual sin
And yet remain serene with its message to win;
Only the adept and gifted flair, free from the ego,
Reaches the range and mark of perfection,or No!
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