The seasoned tools
Rock back and forth
White marble dust
Blesses the floor
The oils of yesterday
Mix with today’s color
And art sells via beliefs
If I was him
And he was God
He was mine to keep.
Yet he builds
Many a Gods in a day
And with such perfection
As they are about to say
A little thanks for bringing them to life.
And of folded hands
Laurels for years to come
For endless sweets offered
He shall taste them later
Thinking aloud
Mallet makes another sound
He gets busy
Creating the Creator.