2vi_ls
Existing but not Alive
- Joined
- May 30, 2025
- Posts
- 1,008
- Reputation
- 1,676
You pick a rock, its edges rough.
Its shape is nothing, dull and tough.
You carve it well, a chunk, a line,
Each cut reveals its form inside.
You smooth its scars, you take your time,
With tender hands, its flaws unwind.
It sheds blood, it fails and cries.
Becomes the proof of whats designed.
And when the rock is fully carved,
The new form it boasts, its high and proud.
A perfect cube, its edges sharp,
A work of pain, yet living art.
And when the cube is held up high,
The people crowd and lift their eye.
They kiss its edges, soft and bright,
While others curse its blunt, cold sight.
And when the artistss hammer drops,
A stray strike mars the flawless line,
They fold their hands, exchange their gasps,
“my, what a perfect cube it was.”
Its shape is nothing, dull and tough.
You carve it well, a chunk, a line,
Each cut reveals its form inside.
You smooth its scars, you take your time,
With tender hands, its flaws unwind.
It sheds blood, it fails and cries.
Becomes the proof of whats designed.
And when the rock is fully carved,
The new form it boasts, its high and proud.
A perfect cube, its edges sharp,
A work of pain, yet living art.
And when the cube is held up high,
The people crowd and lift their eye.
They kiss its edges, soft and bright,
While others curse its blunt, cold sight.
And when the artistss hammer drops,
A stray strike mars the flawless line,
They fold their hands, exchange their gasps,
“my, what a perfect cube it was.”
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