POEM: The Poetic Question

Is a poem like a painting,
a blank canvas layered with colors to form an image?

Or, is a poem like a sculpture,
a lump of potential carved until only that which evokes a sentiment remains?

It feels to me more like the latter,
but — then — wherein lies the lump?

Maybe it’s like sculpting a lump in the dark,
until resonance takes over sculpting,
or something starts to shine?

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