The Sculpture

He searches for each subtle clue
of what his art will be.
A flaw in fabric, a knot in wood
a crack inside the stone
He sees all this and then he looks
deeper for a hint
Of golden fleck, inside the granite,
or a swirl of grain, in wood.

Expose the golden heart cast,
there, within the bronze.
Pound strength into this molten steel
forged from iron's rust.
The artisan makes me his craft
and creates Pygmalion's form,
My lover clothed in workingman's skin
shapes this golem's heart.

To have his touch on my formless soul,
moulded in his hands
And feel as his breath on my marble lips
warms them for his kiss,
Only my craftsman loves me enough
to humanize this mud.
This exquisite life can only be lived
as a product of his mind.