To Hew, version 2

Surrounded by a black fog like black magic so
ephermal it's more mist than mass,
I conjure.
I conjure and summon the thunder the clouds the spinning
celestial hammers that define the landscape -
and those I summon I command,
sending forward to hew the living stone to destroy
to butcher to carve a likeness like that which is
never seen yet was always known; but it's hollow, empty,
lacking an instrinsically necessary item that -
that spirit of definition,
that silhouette that's become an imperative, a crucial
function in the foundation missing that -
I've built am building
as intangible but forceful as the lightning that
powers these stones I throw;
the struggle sometimes is not one of definition
so much as syntax, but the cracks -
the crevasses those forces carved -
they mar and line this landscape, they -
they define it -
embody it.
They embolden it with a futility I knew not these
iron hands capable,
a sense of humility and weakness so profound so as
to destroy, but -
but not the stone.
Never the stone,
as even without one as I, these stones live of their own,
grow and fall and form, sustainment their DNA,
and I am a mere benefactor, a com-off, an
element of impermanence that -
that as strongly as the molecules of stone bind
themselves in this image,
as absolutely as they assume correct form,
they are to be but dust, the sought resolution
as laughably marred as crippled,
their entropy demonstrating that I have neither
the iron hands nor power over stone, no, but rather -
the shattered leaf, the burned branch,
the wilted, scorched and dying grass,
these things, these things dead and fleeting and
soon gone,
these are the ways in which I carve.