The Most Malicious Sculptors

 

Milling about each other

In the terms of day to day life

We chip off pieces of those around us-

And those closest especially.

Crumbling blocks of one’s trust and innocence:

The things of youth,

Inspiring only bitterness in those with most-marked chisels.

 

And so we shuffle about this mortal coil

Breaking off this here or that there

And when we return to a previous work, exclaiming,

“Who did this to that there!  That is not how I left it!”

As though all other souls were the private property of each.

 

And so our persons are never-settled dunes

Vulnerable as grains to the wind.

Author's Note

This poem started out much longer, and I cut it down a lot. Do you think I cut it down too much, and now the central theme needs more explanation?