The Porcelain Man

A porcelain smile for a porcelain man,
eyes of ivory, clay feet in the sand
of the hourglass within which he stands.

 

Unable to move, stuck within time,
as the sands cascade upon his face,
the ebb and flow making him pine.

Wearing him down, unmoving from this place,
the sands ebb his face, but he grins and refuses to show,

to break down now, let his smile fade, let the world know.

 

The grains amass amongst his feet,
scratching and burning, brilliant white heat.
His foundation soon will crumble,
slowly tilting forward, he refuses to stumble.
Instead he falls, too proud for a hand,
he pulls himself up, makes his own stand.

 

And still he smiles, though soon he knows,
demise is coming, thanking the lies he sows.
And those once beautiful, ivory eyes,
now glaze over, unable to cry.
And his once pristine smile cracks and shatters,
as the ebb of time weathers his heart, in seconds, a matter.
The porcelain man now worn down,
the procelain man worn into the ground.
Now he is one, one with the sand, unable to stand.

Reviews

[Antonionioni]

I enjoyed this, Tommy. It was an effective metaphor.