© 1992 Kienenberger

                   A lone man 
                flees in the dark
               night,    Wind howls,
                       brushing leaves   past
           his scurrying form, Thoughts rush over
        his hungering mind of days past, friendly
      words exchanged in innocent gossip, unaware
     of the anger they caused, bringing   about
    his dark flight, anger burns within,
    fed by a fire of            annoyance
   of unfinished stone,         touched
   by his hands, yet never      complete,
  before being  forced into     beginning
  a-new, struck   by cold rage   within,
  Rome dwindles  in his wake, days pass
   with the wind,the night becomes nomore.
   Gravel streets now hail his       feet,
    houses of                        wood
   call to his                        inner
   anger, beckon                         it,
   to rest, in                         time
    throbbing                           ire
    fades.  
   Morning,                              a
   new day                             rises,
   bringing                               in
   rumbling                                of
   horses                                 hooves,
   wavy                                    wind 
   blown                                    robes
   dis                                      -mount,
                                              a man
                                              summoned
                                               by edict,
                                                 stairs
                                                  into a 
                                                 cold wind      blowing
                                                from Rome. High, floating
                                              above upon metal, colors mix
                                            upon the cold warped canvas,
                                           from the walls flows a draft,
                                          forced in, by the dry air
                                         of Rome, unseen, it touches
                                       the canvas drying the oils,
                                      cracking the warped    surface,
                                     lines are formed,         shaped
                                     by an Angeles brush,        slowly,
                                    conforming to the             shape
                                   of the odd contour,          beauty
                                   is carved into the           canvas
                                    of stone, alive             with
                                    chiseled colors,         molded
                                    touched and           signed,
                                     by the hands
                                      of a gifted
                                        Sculptor.