It is an abstract shape he seeks,
one, pleasing to mind and eye.
In short, perfection, tangible.
Carving the rough marble
it seems as if the stone forms itself, his hands working from his own perception of the ideal.
But every corner appears pedantic.
Every detail, pride; each inscription a lie.
On he goes, immersed in his work.
A fervour grips, and much later
he stops to survey his creation.
It is indeed what he sought.
A pile of dust lies upon the floor.