Archaic sculpteur
O’ Monsieur, I’m the
molten clay in thy hand
For swirling curved long
fingers doth shape
Thou art the master
and amigo to my loose sand
Ephemerally yet
neatly, thy flair kiss my nape
Then comes Mademoiselle,
a mistress of far-land
A smile etched on
her pale face, she’d fake
Wink of her green
eyes, nibble on thine errand
Thieving attention, alas! Farthest it take
Fashioning me hath not
been a dream of thine
I, half-sculptured,
of a wet queasy quagmire
Lie on ground,
wrought flawlessly into a shrine
For thine embrace to
her, hath lent me to fire!
language is pretty sweet on the ears n soft on the eyes..
ReplyDeletePleasure to see you here..thanks dear :)
Deleteoo la la...such passion in this...the amigo of the sand of me...love how you pair this with art too...love is an art that makes much of us...smiles.
ReplyDeleteDefinitely Brian, love in itself as beautiful and awe-worthy as any piece of art, carrying a poignant tale to be narrated for years to come..
DeleteWow, Simply beautiful!!
ReplyDeleteThank You :)
DeleteYour welcome :)
DeleteYou keep growing with every poem ... words come so naturally to you nowadays ... always a pleasure to read you :-)
ReplyDeleteSo so so glad to hear these words from you...Thanks a lot :)
Deleteperfect!!
ReplyDeleteI, half-sculptured, of a wet queasy quagmire
Lie on ground, wrought flawlessly into a shrine
:)
Delete