A name is a stone; a unique granite slab,
Chisel, chisel, break away all surplus,
It is not mass a name needs; meaningless,
But a picture, illustrious.and bright.
The artist sits and ponders, then begins,
Breathe. Breath the love into it; rest later.
For sleep is eternal once the work done.
Each day labor spent, deadline unknown.
What will the artist bring into this world?
A sculpture of love, light, laughter, gentle?
A sculpture of faces noble, decent?
Visages that inspire men to more?
Or perhaps will darkness guide the hand stray?
Eyes brimming with anger peer from the face,
A spear in one hand, a heart opposite,
A hand guided by hate may create such a namesake
Or worse yet,
To each name a tender love is given,
To each sculptor a muse guides, ill or good.
Some love is that of benevolence, true,
Some follow Narcissus, cold to others,
And some find love too weak; never complete.