Segments of wood cut like puzzle pieces,
That fit together in conjoining shapes,
For his nails, square, and chisel he reaches,
Although only botched failures he makes:
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With his brow stinging from sweat he works on;
Every measurement done with precision.
Every dent, dint, dip, and pit sanded gone,
Everything in every right position:
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Admiring his magnus carpentry,
In the corner, a small peg starts to stir;
This can't be true, he worked so artfully;
It just collapsed in a sawdust filled blur:
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For his failed creations, what are their cost?
The one thing he could build was his own cross.
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Shackled Sonnets: A Collection of Poems
PoetryA collection of sonnets about that which I shall never have. A girl I love, but she loves another. I have only recently been reading and writing poetry because of her, so hopefully, my writing will get better as time goes on. Check back for a new so...
