The Poet

As he chisels down words onto a blank white sheet...

The Poet

As he chisels down words
Onto a blank white sheet,
He constructs a setting
So vivid and concrete.

As he chisels down words,
Both his ears and his eyes
Turn to twittering birds
Flying up in the skies.

As he chisels down words,
His pointed, smelling nose
Becomes a prickly thorn
On a stalk of a rose.

As he chisels down words,
He carves away his face
To the point it is blank
And lost without a trace.