Sonnet IV: The Lithic Labor
With fingers raw, he probes the granite vein,Extracting minerals of duller sheen;No longer weaving light from starlit rain,But sculpting shadows in the mossy green.The alchemy of terra, thick and slow,Resists the promptings of his phantom limb;Where once a solar flare would start to glow,Now only peat and sod respond to him.He stacks the boulders in a jagged spire,A crude memento of the spiraled sun,Fueling the forge with subterranean fire,Until the day and midnight melt as one.A monumental ache begins to bloom,Within the silence of his earthen room.
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