Konark

Built myself
in the bricks of Robert Frost
so much sculpture
so much finery
but the artisan in me failed.
Did the Artisan failed in me.

The old lady
widowed at ninety
loves her husband
loves her life
loves her bangles too.
None can say her insane.

I
wanted to be a blade of grass
couldn’t be a dropp of dew
a Konark is in me
I am in the unbuilt part too.

Monks and myths chant
that Artisan’s name
who makes not
what I love
but
what He thinks
and what He is not.