Living by the stone

Living by the stone
He carved out figures.
Cut by cut, scrap by scrap
With his little fingers, eroding his worst fears.

Fear that his sweat might be too little
Fear that his pain might be too small
To achieve that epitome of an image
Where corners were points and edges true lines.

A pound of pain, a ton of labour
Never a torture, sheer ardour
Just a constant pegging away at God’s will;
Perfection isn’t ever served on a platter.

Why stone did he choose?
When roses abound and petals lay strewn.
What path did he choose?
That none traversed and little had known.

This query they put, then back he shot:
“What fun there is in mocking the mocked?
Carving out garlands, anyone could
But a canvas of stone, only I would paint.

When a beaten path you all tread,
A new beginning from where would emerge.
Where all treaded the beaten path,
A dead end reached where nothing diverged.”

So back he went to work,
Driven by a desire to leave no stone unturned.
Cut by cut, scrap by scrap,
Thus were eroded his worst fears with his now content fingers.

(A new composition...hope you like it. Comments would, as always, be welcome.)