Sculpting

An arm. A face. A torso. He begins to take shape. His body is immaculate, as always. Soon he will be instilled with a spark, but for now he still is just clay. He is at my mercy and he doesn’t even know it.

His arms will hug. His arms will touch. His arms will fight. Mine will sculpt.

His head will see. His head will learn. His head will discover. Mine will design.

His heart will start. His heart will love. His heart will stop. Mine will continue.

I know nothing and I never will. I create freedom between my fingers, but I will never be able to touch it. I do not get tired, I do not rest, but deep within me there lies a yearning for change. Maybe on another breath I will learn to be free like him. Maybe I can speak and laugh like he will. But I am merely the designer, not the participant. And so I proceed.

An arm. A face. A torso. She begins to take shape.