Beneath a mantle
of words, my poem hides,
evading me.
No chisel at hand, I scrape,
with my pen, at the surface
of a page, bare
fingers clawing at gravel,
dislodging lumps of stone,
revealing, piece by piece,
what I have not
imagined, until it appears
fully formed, before me.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Auguste Rodin, The hand of God
via Picryl
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