The Sculptor

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.

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