All those poems
I never wrote
you are my lost
beloved children.
Born a stillborn birth
never to be known, upon this earth.
Never to be raised
upon fledgling childhood dais.
Why has fate shown
such crushing bias?
Carved out
are quarried blocks
of fractured lesser stone.
Where are fine
flawless marble blocks
sculptural pure pieces?
Scattered left crumbling
rotting in their bedrock.
Cry Cry Lament
for all my lost children.
Cheated right of birth
so often
those of noble
neglected line.
Tearing pain of loss
strikes a ragged
dissonant note;
ransom paid
at extravagant price.
Loss felt
comparable
to loss of limb.
Artistic body left
incomplete
rendered less
ethereal capable
on lip of chasm.
Lost beyond recovery
essence never to be retrieved.
Often diligent committed day
ideas come slip away.
Gone past brink of reach
search proves poignant.
Post-mortem is pointless.
Consider
given opportunity
circumstances
available time.
Have we achieved
anything of remark?
Though how we mourn
all those lost unborn works.
Stone cutter with skill
and care cunningly
carved out blocks.
Using time. Age.
Old techniques. Patience.
Combined with muscle.
State of art
tools. Only to see
potentially brilliant
gift left scattered.
Discarded. Lying fallow.
Creativity
dried up
shriveled shriven
shrinkage.
Motive precision
fades
is receding into void.
Rebirth must begin
upon
latter day.
Artist has gone
leaving the gate of heart open.
Who will come in
to pick up his chisel?
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
http: //www.poemhunter.com/terence-george-craddock/