The Solitary Sculptor

I can feel the Louvre in your fingertips,
Planning its monumental jail-break,
Held tightly in place by doubt,
Doubt of self and scene.
Come closer, squeezing in-between the mortar,
Of your sky-lit brick tower,
Keeping safe the sanctity of solitude.
Slip outside of this comfort castle,
Into a world of watercolor worlds,
Each orb a beacon and water-droplet at once,
Magnetic fields pulling disruption to its borders;
The nature of the structure.
Fear not, mon cherie,
The usurpation is just an illusion,
One that lovers and sculptors haven’t put a name-tag on yet,
When the Gauls come at night,
Pulled by the sublimity they know not,
With sinister-steel criticisms and battle cries of confusion,
Striking-blow shattering the watery safe-haven,
The scene does not evaporate,
But dissipates,
Sending  your soul into The Water Cycle,
Quenching the thirst of humankind.
With these people pushing against that,
Paint yourself a scandal,
To share with the masses,
A communion of your allure,
Tasting the water blessed by Venus.

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