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What are you but stone?
Rough and pulled from the ground as an imposing block
And what am I but a man?
Birthed from the wreckage of a little girls dream
At first the work is in blunt strikes
As you resist what you are
As you fear
What I see
Mallet upon chisel
Upon the sweet stone
Compressed by years of
The weight of this world
As the pieces of you gather
Upon the ground at my feet
And the unnecessary shards
Pull tears from my eyes
Your shape
Hidden from all but you and I
Is slowly revealed
And still you resist
The rasps and the rifflers
Pecking and carving
Sand cloth and files
Polish and rub
The work becomes pleasure
As you reveal a complex translucency
A static shape that moves
An undeniable beauty that dreams
What are you but art?
Fine and always there
And what am I but a man?
Now weeping in the shadow of you.
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