-for Robert T. Cole




Human
Human hands
     cleft to the shadows of artificial bone
     gentle to the metal they burn and mold
          into life
a focused confinement of artistic merit
until the face of legend is perfected as a representational mask
     Bronzed skin
          Eternal fixed expression
               Valor in it's realism
And note what is revealed by the intricate
                                          carving of the mask's eye
Insight not limited to what is inventory of the studio
     Though, Oh the cacophony of pleasures he does sculpt
But an insight to the man himself
     The tourniquets that were tightened
                              in order for freedom to be a possibility
     Burden of a son
          not mentored
     Stones in a well
               meant for wise triumph
Destiny re-invented
     The nature of man cursed
     for the sake of his art
All for the cheers
All for the applause
     of his essentialism
After which
he still comes for answers
The artist comes best to know himself
     by getting to know another artist
Across a table
          where upon their glasses are emptied of inspiration
     The egos split
     These men reduced to mortality
At which point
he is left
     with questions fallow
Standing barefoot in a rain puddle
                            a kiss dismissed
                            a regret
                                     championed
They speak in riddles
They scream in jest
They tell of the very truth
     then fall silent
     waiting for forgiveness

Then 
and only then
a return of the ego

His friends
His family
His legacy
His social undertow
All only to come from
                     Fire and Hammer
But
The hours cannot stall to pass
The skies above him cannot be unchained of clouds
The burdening thoughts outside his studio are unhinged to his discipline
He holds no power here
However
No God to call upon him
The sculptor can provide his own mercy
     in a religion that is himself
The wielding of creation is granted him
                                        and creation is accomplished
Now a disciple comes forth
     Birthed under hands thickened by calluses
A new mask
to stand vigil over the shoreline that is his life

                   
                                                   -Dylan Wahl

                                                    copyright 1997