A poem by Isabelle Sorrells
He creates with his hands and clay
With wheel and chisel
Forming anguished faces
And dancing figures
Through once lifeless media
Now made timeless with a version of life all their own.
He toils night and day
His hands and skin coated in dried mud
Running through the grooves in his hands
And re-defining features
So when people see his work
They aren’t sure if its the statue
Or him.
Words Worth While 