Sculpt

And in the well-worn ache of turning mourning, there are no more tears- for all is beauty-lathed misery, held unswathed, without fearing to uptake hope's new sculpted shape. A changeling exchanged while flailing naked in it's abyssal state. And wholeness excises, to demean only fruitless shoots, now seen to sow what has no further meaning. And in the ague of restless morning's fitful, nude, new break from dim, unsculptured yaw- fretful feet leave dark, wet indents in dew. Old soul trails beneath gift's gape- heaven's gate, just ajar, seeps, speaks healing wreathed in Love- the writhing heart agape. And thr dry-cried throat too friction ground to speak, slakes it's thirst on dew- Heaven's assuage tempers, cools. And in eyes' age of blinding burnings- forceful, rude muckrake, there are no more proud airs. For eyelids pasted shut, caked in self- molded clay's despair, felt insightful incision draw sharp truth's decision deft- knavish knots excised, reveal man's Sculptor knows justly how to grave His image. And seeing is only believing, when believing is cleft open to high insight's slice and sculpt understood, read, spoken. 02/12/2017