The Crowning Glory

He keeps himself confined, to bluster now, and remonstrate the struggle being more than he can bear. Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from the sweat of his own making to a glimpse of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not the crowning glory. So many vestiges, heros in the making, but a careless chip, an errant slice, consigns them to the beggars pile, without that patina of agelessness. Never ready, never groomed to wear that sacred halo on his head, the crowning glory. Once in a while a piece emerges, bursting from the cold, defiant marble, his fingers work, so resolute, to fabricate this work of art, fingers, limbs and face in perfect symmetry, they become eternal,his reward a wreath, the crowning glory! Author's Note ...inspired by the poetry of Seamus Heaney.