The Craftsman

Architect, builder, father, shaper, molder.

Those who wait above hear him toil down below,

His whirring machinery impregnated with lofty purpose, 

From which crawls forth mind-forged obelisks, 

Monuments to his craft, yes, yet imbued with far greater sentimentality, 

Derived not merely from its material existence, but much more from recipient’s joy. 

Heavy sets his brow into a stance of determination, 

for the craftsman labors not for his own glory or gratification,

Forsaken wood and frozen steel,

is warmed by hearth and not by mettle. 

Though he hammers, bends, breaks, ties, 

All that can be broken, all that can be repaired, 

The mind of the craftsman lingers not in this realm of the material, 

And opts instead for flights of fancy into the meadow of possibility. 

With a twist of the mind bounded walls shake off their dusty coats,

And lean fully instead into an ephemeral guise. 

Pushed outward, slid inwards, destroyed, created, 

Now lines of data to dance upon the craftsman’s blueprint. 

Every nook becomes not an expression of absence, 

But rather a thrumming shelter where opportunity may dwell.

Every symbol of dilapidation learns to spit in the face of decay, 

And instead sweetly offer a promise of renewal and rebirth. 

Mind and body unite in fervor to forge this sanctified bastion. 

The most prime of materials, the sweetest of thought nectar, 

These, and only these, shall be considered for the project, 

To substitute is to err, for the craftsman can accept no less. 

If he willed it, if fanciful moments allowed, 

His arms would forever envelop those who dwell above. 

And together form a permanent lock, a gift of safety,

But one unfettered with a need for a key. 

Instead, these walls, these gates, these planted trees, 

Shall raid the wardrobes of metaphor and play the role of craftsman’s embrace. 

And all that thrums and grows inside within these bounds, 

Let it be his heart, and let it expand forevermore. 

The craftsman toils even now, perhaps even in slumber’s guise, 

Yet miss ye not the presence of his altruism-flavored hallowed zeal. 

For from his hands he doth transform,

This hovel into a home.