Does a flame know when it burns?
Or of its brethren’s fellow toil?
All burn bright because they must
And all of this is down to trust.
Is this faith, or faith in destiny?
No call to idols and unproved deities,
Who comprehend these things that vex
Apart from Artist’s charcoal scratch.
When does nature turn to art?
Here he stands,
Raising hot dust from cold
Trying to fashion beauty
From brutish chisel
Strike and scratch.
Passioned blows
Seeking form, in form
Already there.
Not knowing when
These vain stabs cease
Makes him wonder.
Oh, the whispers we might hear
if we stayed silent in the noise
listening to the audience
and not the sound of
our own voice.