Bodybuilder

[ThePinsir]

Version 4.0
Bodybuilder

My cousin knew a man who worked with stone
who slaved for years to master his profession.
Seeking to show his sculpted stone expressions
supplied him skills the world had never known.
He'd sneak away at night to work alone;
as passion slowly turned into obsession,
his search for perfect art into depression,
the marble was to him as flesh and bone.
Preferring solitude the sculptor fled
and watched his work, his life, his love erode
until disheartened wife and son escaped.
With crumbled spirit yearning to be dead,
the beating of his graven heart then slowed
and stopped - nothing left but empty shape.




Version 3.5
(only edited the sestet for 3.0)
(re-wrote octave for 3.5)

Bodybuilder

My cousin knew a man who worked with stone
who slaved for years to master his profession.
Seeking to show his sculpted stone expressions
supplied him skills the world had never known.
He'd sneak away at night to work alone
as passion slowly turned into obsession,
his search for perfect art into depression,
a near recluse, his fingers worked to bone.
Pursuing vanity, the sculptor fled,
appreciation very nearly lost.
Away he chizzled loving wife and son,
his marble idol took her place in bed.
Deceiving ego justified the cost...
What's "greatness" worth when all is said and done?




Version 2.1

Bodybuilder

My cousin knew a sculptor long ago,
perfection overwhelmed his every thought;
if not the best his work was all for naught
and through his work his dedication showed glowed.
The finest marble made his pieces flow
into a life their own. Yet still he sought
this dreamèd form – “At last, I’m done!” he thought;
his masterpiece was wrought, prepared to show!
And yet, despite the contours of the stone,
the years of slaving, beating at his trade,
the sculptor found a single imperfection:
he'd never quite displayed its overgrown
intent. Its graven eyes, yet soundly made,
could never understand its own reflection.



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Version 1.0

My cousin knew a sculptor long ago,
perfection occupying every thought;
if not ideal his work was all for naught,
and through his work his dedication'd show.
The finest marble'd make his pieces flow
into a life their own. Yet still he sought
this visioned form - At last, no more he fought;
his masterpiece was wrought, prepared to show!
And yet, despite the contours of the stone,
the years of slaving, beating at his trade,
the sculptor found a single imperfection:
he'd never quite displayed its woebegone
spirit. Its graven eyes, yet soundly made,
could never understand its own reflection.