Carve

Omnimax47

I see it there,

the hours I’ve spent alone.

Small and red,

My mind begins to wander.

 

A doubt of shame,

is not what I feel.

You may seem scared,

By what I’ve done.

 

Without my hand,

My job won’t end.

Stop and marvel.

You see, the work I do.

To make my art.

 

  • Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: December 14th, 2018 08:00
  • Comment from author about the poem: This poem is different from what I have written in the past, and due to its multiple comprehensions of the writing, I would love feedback on what you believe it means.
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 19
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  • Omnimax47

    Thank you for your feedback.



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