He picked up the scarred stone,

Eyes full of zing,

Examining it with his rough hands,

Imperfections looking perfect.


Rubbing the dirt off,

He held out his chisel,

Singing a song along,

The stone, dancing to his rhythm.


The language they spoke,

No one else could decipher,

But the mere sound of it,

A treat to listen.


He carved curves and waves,

Making us guess a women,

A beautiful lady,

A dream in his heart..


He broke the curve a little,

Making it look like a petal,

A blossoming flower,

The beauty of nature..


He shaped a more deeper curve,

Making it seem like a wing,

A little butterfly,

Fluttering its wings..


Finally, he cut a sharp edge,

So sharp that it might pierce through bare skin,

And the stone turned out to be a heart,

Complete with the curves and a sharp edge to finish,

A cold, stone heart!



P.C : pinterest



  1. Colin Hill · June 17, 2017

    Really enjoyed your ‘blossom’ poem. The chisel title caught my eye as I work with tools a lot. Feel free to check out my ‘blossom’ poem. All the best.

    • Sara · June 17, 2017

      Thanks , Colin 🙂

  2. emn · June 18, 2017

    Agree…the chisel drew me in. Nice!

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