Frustrating art

 Frustrating art 

~Miss A

Little to the delve like a heart frustrating,

Crave the stones into one single being. 

A thought of art and the artist cries,

For to bring it to life; he's beyond unqualified.

For wandering in the dense shrubs of the garden,

He's found a melody, sung by the bees on the leaves by the rain.

A hymn he found just so pure, he wishes it to dictate,

Easy as it occurred; quickly lost its trail to the complicated.

How many musicals have been played, of it were to the debris of nature,

Fine mallets and brushes, and he'd crave an instrument.

Something which could sustain the warmth of the player,

Something which resonated the blows of time and verse the hunger.

Coat it with innocence, mask it with unclosed eyes, ecstasy and rejoice,

And to make it hollow, give it space, to hold some insights. 

But how to do this with stones, nothing so complex like this sculpture,

No beginning no end, how to build a breathing Brent.

To build a brain passage, scribbles filled with microscopic words "one truth many false",

Going drown to every vein and bypassing artery, a colon which reverses magic.

And the reversed vent blowing back into a column to sound like the heart of soil,

Build of stones which enlarges and collapses with many forms of life.

In the form that would absorb in rays of light, streams of rain, gushes of air, earth it's made in, and warmth from the chaos inside it,

Absolutely random events of surroundings, sung back in the flute, sounds encouraging.

Wow, I must start now, this is enlightening, but the clay set won't embark his viewing,

For it needs to be as pure, that even a stone could live within.

He cries, for now that he has seen this wonderful view, he can picture,

A night shade human like replica, parched sitting, oozing tranquility, cantillating belongings.

He'd like to lay there for hours, dance too, leaving all the worries behind,

Would there be a creation like this in the world of any kind. 

He feels defeated, for all he's done is estrade pottery, some stone manuscripts,

And this is to tone yourself from a crow to a swan of the estuary.

A black rock, a twilight dream, won't be even remembered tommorow,

So he chooses to draw it out somewhere, so that atleast the vision is infiltrated.

A prime time to live it all in thoughts now, Monday mornings trade hell,

But he decides to try more, give it his usual self more.

Maybe one day, the gap between the destination and himself closes,

It's June now, the rain puts him in a lucid state.

Carefully plunging all the lost imagination in a tray,

There's something achieved, a lot to gain, hell lots that seem impossible.

And then when every chapter seems closed, maybe the peice look better in a forest,

Hugged my ventures of woods,

 chirping of birds and scouting creatures.