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The Sculptor's Last AngelHis calloused hand caressed the scrolling linesVeined in the bone white marble of her tomb.His patient chisel, practiced at the task,Sought out the cloistered form that stone confinesAnd holds imprisoned in its pregnant womb.He rendered from a stubborn milky maskA poignant angel by his soul conceived,Celestial angel to himself bequeathed.
His last breath given out for her to own,Lies beckoning inside her tender breast.Her ardent eyes seize from the marble stoneA heart that's long been buried in its chest.Her wings await his final passage homeFrom this damp bed where he must take his rest.
Published on April 21, 2012 04:00