Finding that one, who understands, and never ask one to change; takes more of a trial than what anyone would never know of, but there within one could try and do whatever it takes.
Molding one’s feeling to another, in maybe searching not only oneself of emotions of compassion takes more than undemanding words. The ones that just leave as murmurs and vacant promises do nothing but concave a heart.
His face only seems to bring that sentiment to life, with dilapidated hands, went with his work. Echoing of the crackling of stone, chip by chip, slowly the heart becomes less of an unsung play, and radio the words that were once unsaid, booming across a large slab of cold stone.
Along in his story, leaving only to grow his passion behind locked doors, many of who knew him, only knows that whatever he constructs, becomes a master piece of its own right.
Through the months, his guarantees to allure others grow unclear and soon, it’s only for him.
From fingers to elbow caked in harden dust, now and so to flex his fingers from stiffness, soon return to work. Weeks fade to months, passing to a year or so, everyone around him, of this unsung world was gone.
He became a fleeting reminiscence of an artist who had no margins, gone the instant the doors of his labor set shut. The world moved on. Alas, he and his work remain in place, bonding.
Dark rough stone that felt and looked as if lighten had stricken it, withdraw just as so, paling away, with such a soft flow as the hammer struck the chisel at the right points. Time is not a matter anymore.
Nor of how it alters the mind. Another close of ending year comes, the maker sees as finishes the last touches, upon seeing around him, the shop is leveled with dust, his body dimmed with slim coated dry clay.
With a once raven color beard grown pasted the normal length, grayed in a strands, a clacked outside his shop, reminded of what he left behind. Pleading almost for him to see how much, he had missed, but there was a grabbed he didn’t understand nor wanted to.
As the fine cool hands, of his dream loves glide across his blistered hands, a warm smile is greeted to him. All what he missed of given, from a world he would never understand, yet would he ever question it.
The once unsung heartfelt soul; considered alive once more. On a whim from within, he moved close, those whispers before, that once hurt, did not compare fire these terms bestow.
Sadly to know now, it’s just a legend of man with a broken, loveless heart, using all that of fallen tears to bring a fruitless love, that would care for him, just as he does for what holds close.
Too little judgment there would be, between those worlds of fiction and facts, behold only to them, of man vs. himself, to awaken. Finding something that isn’t always in front of one person, or miles away, it comes. Welcoming this feeling of care for is just a step one needs to take, when in doubt of everything else.
There is always to what one’s hands can do and motivation.
Pygmalion and Galatea 2 by Jean-Léon Gérôme
Made in the year; 1890
Location when painted; unknown
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