Colossus

A monolith, hewn from high Carrara,
From a fault-ridden corner of the quarry
Hauled great distance by wagon, sledge and barge
And left, neglected, in the courtyard

Of questionable acquisition
And suspect value
A deep crevasse ran through the core
Where others sought to shape it

The artist takes the challenge
And claims the difficult commission
And shelters the rough slab in the studio
Where they observe each other, estimating

The chisel carves into hard white flesh
As the splinters precipitate
And dust descends
Choking and chafing

The stone is hacked and gouged
Precious pieces fall away
Within, taking shape, a living thing
That feels every cut, every tooth, every rasp

The entombed being winces at every blow
Yet yearns to be set free from its form
The artist labors, yet loves the creation
And continues despite the struggle

But the wounds are so deep
And the dust so blinding
That in time, neither can bear
The presence of the other

Finally, the fatal flaw is exposed
And all progress ended
For one more mallet-fall
Would break the marble in two

So the canvas is covered
Over the half-completed work
The artist, resigned, says it matters not
For you were never beautiful to me



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