The Sculptor

   
If I could sculpt my love,  
search for finest porphyry,  
I would spend my life and carve  
fit for Rome or Athens to rival  
all that they display, then  
weave a coat of finest silk  
dyed in purple, rich and royal,  
clinging close as skin  
to hide you for myself.  
Not for you the gaping crowds,  
a need to hide your nature  
you would sit as oft you do,  
thighs relaxed and honest  
smiling eyes and mouth,  
thoughts, desires as my own.  
The Opal and the Rose unfurled,  
petals soft a stigma at the heart  
beckon,tempt my confessing passion  
hid beneath the leather of my apron  
dusty with the chisel strokes,  
as I seek your form within the stone.  
Then with all my might and memory  
between those thighs so cold and pure  
I would spend my days remembering,  
know I could not simulate the joy you give,  
each fold inscribed upon the stone  
sincerely wrought yet cold not warm.  
Then discard my conceit and blade  
return the stone to whence it came,  
to weather in the rain and sun  
moulded  by a skill more rare  
but with a love not less.