The Sculptor

The tarp flows off.

There it stands,

the newest member of the gallery

___________________________

 

None know of the frail hands

chipping away in the dark,

towards pearlescent perfection.

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A marble portrait.

The likeness of its maker.

Towering, strong, and bold.

 

Physical perfection displayed in pure whiteness.

Corded muscles cast in stony permanence.

Beneath a powerful brow, confident eyes gleam.

 

Charisma and command radiate

From the smirk that plays across

the cold marble.

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Marble dust dries sweaty palms

in the back of the gallery.

Will anyone notice?

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The crowd marvels,

Taken with the veracity

in this marble lie.

 

“What confidence, what

strength, what virtue!”

they cry.

 

“Here is one to admire,”

they declare,

“a goal to strive towards.”

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Burning ears listen

Frail hands clench.

A head hangs in shame.

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The rich go and the poor come.

Downtrodden, they see compassion

within a marble gaze.

 

The hurt come,

Finding comfort in a warm smile.

The weak leave inspired.

 

They confide to

the marble avatar of

a one who understands them.

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“Who put that there?”

“You see what?”

“Where?”

 

He listens to the stories,

To the secret pains shared

with this marble confidant.

 

He watches the seekers,

to see what they find.

What has he made?

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The whole

see one of their own.

The marble incarnation of virtue.

 

The broken

see a strong pillar.

A silent Atlas to share the burden.

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Days, weeks pass.

He hears all,

and learns the truth.

___________________________

 

Dust gathers, cracks appear.

The veneer fades.

Time wears down with its passing.

___________________________

Frail hands gather polish and plaster.

Weary eyes meet a marble gaze.

He must not change.