‘Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children ,’
sterile, frustrated, it comes to decay.
Michelangelo wept when he found perfection,
took up his hammer, he did not delay.
None stayed his hand as he lunged at his David,
breaking his heart
on that cool summer day.
Birthing his talent
the last chip was chipped
off the warm marble block
with its dust sweet bouquet.
tears on his cheeks, sugar spray.
confection of lies,
conception of lies.
They tried to do it away.
Polly Stretton © 2014