The Sculptor

Each day things become a little less clear,
a little less defined.
What was once a vivid portrait
of staggeringly refined intricacy,
has become a vestige,
a truth I once had the keenness to see.

Melodramatic, as it has ever been,
to slowly lose what stands before you,
knowing with certainty,
its resolution to leave you
is as unyielding as it is
heartbreaking.

Please don't leave me.
I've fought for so long,
searched every crevice,
every gyrus,
for that purpose,
for that promise.

With a penetrating introspection,
I thought I had found it.
Found clarity,
a grounded idea of what was lost.
I thought the work was done,
that I had finally discovered
the whithering husk...

of who I used to be.

How can I possibly hope to fill it now?
When its shell crumbles
like chalk between my fingers.
How does one turn dust
to definition?

[And now cue the comeback]


Can't it be discerned what's really happening here?
That time after time what we're not supposed to hear,
plagues us with words of a nature calloused
thick like tempered steel,
skin made rough by years of use,
able to play these strings with reckless abuse
of time, of harmony,
of discord and a unified idea,
of perceived emotions and hapless
misunderstood feelings,
trenchant if only because of their zeal,
unabashedly forthright,
can't it be seen? Can't it be SEEN?
It's right there in front of us all,
whether our eyes are open or not,
give it its due and realize
that everybody sees it differently.
My eyes find what was lost,
make clay out of dust,
make man out of clay,
make me out of the
monotone gray of the unfinished mold,
just as I had pictured it.
Just as I was...

And just as I am today.