The Sculptor Poem by Jonathan De Vocht

As my vista crony’s paradigm did not attain,
patent, it became, th’effect of the depraved bequest.
The reticence of virtues; those whom to love pertain,
forlorned th’inner strength, to stay inert to my request.

Amidst the murk, that shades from spires of dismay evoke,
perdured my venture for th’allegiant compeer to form,
for that amalgam of worth, clasped by a shrouding cloak,
to cohere with a heart of painite, found among havoc’s storm.

Stands sentinel, to my own heart; grief, that did infest,
who, in soliloquy faces the vacant stone chest.
For ne’er it shall defile th’compound wherein to invest,
But stays memento’s sieve in the quest from east to west.

The remnants; wich the finical archetype contents,
console my schizoid mood, and leave, in a heinous sin,
a trite concourse, whereover love’s monody laments.
A profound colloquy moulds the nexus of the kin.

Mutual exertion satiates the bare hollow,
accruing splendor to the yet latent fortitude.
With time, proved to be the prolific path to follow,
for abiding trust, wich then evolves in multitude.

Rectitude shaped value in th’adjacent to my side,
enlivening altruism to the moil of pride,
to be the inverse image to life’s protean tide,
where empty pledges are concomitant to man’s stride.

Near windup for the rudiments of the constant growth,
this friendship, in our world, cognition ne’er to omit,
cements its verity of existance; us will clothe,
and then humanity’s frugal requisites shall fit.

After myriad adverse misfortunes to fervent hope,
and lonely nomad years with that time in sadness spent,
the living piece came, in a cloud of mirth, great in scope,
To receive that final mark; he bacame a true friend.