Sculpting the Kaolin of Thought….

Inside a poet's room lay many a veil
over several thoughts, where his wit does prevail
when unravelling the best among all
where the weakest of all do gracefully fall.
The best, chiselled using a quill, so keen
into a verse that a poet might have seen.

With his parchment, as fair as the snow
he begins to carve them aglow,
moulding his thoughts with utmost care
to make the audience think to dare.
In solitude, he contemplates and stands
to give a finesse to his verse with his hands.

Like a miner covered in sweat and soil,
a poet dwells in his world of mental toil
busy extracting rhymes and many a unique line,
from the depths of his musings so sublime.
These thoughts, like muses on an ancient slate,
Bear weights of themes, both small and great.

Then is the Rough Hewing of wit
that sculptors do with all their grit,
a poet begins to assemble his art
by placing his stanzas, setting them apart.
He uses his words perfectly and precise
to gently unleash the beauty, cold as ice.

Now, he takes it to his renowned atelier
where his refined thoughts find their display
using whom he gives a finesse, with curves
that commix into his art's verve and nerves.
Adorned with metaphors, like sculpted detail
he tries to give his verse, a life to forever sail.

With poetic rhythm and true cadence,
the poet sculpts his poetic eloquence.
An ode, an elegy, a sonnet or a lay
will eventually emerge out of his poetic play
The sculpted lines are like statues tall,
that inscribe a tale that all enthrall

Yet oft, the poet must face
the flaws in lines, in stanzas, in grace
and with his refined poetic eye
edits, prunes and does purify,
For in the crucible of his thought,
perfection is important to be sought.

And as the dawn breaks over his page,
he stands like a derelict and a humble sage
watching his words, now finely spun
putting light on the morn of what'd begun.
With his quill and chisel kissed,
is the poet's soul now forever grist.

With ink-stained fingers, pained but content
with the words showcasing his heart's intent
As the sculptor rests upon his labour's crest,
so does the poet lay his quill to rest
for the poem to outlive him and the Time
bearing a testament to his thought in the rhyme.