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| The Sculptor�s Hand He stands and looks intently As if expecting to receive An answer to his every thought Of what he might conceive From changing what I�ve come to know What time has given me A solid form of prominence My place in history. He�s chipping at me through the day And long into the night. Pausing, restless in his sleep Then arising with the light. Revealing my very nakedness, Relentless in the chore, My stony flesh has fallen Into piles upon the floor. This artly form, he�s made of me, A likeness of his own, Is now lifted high and set upon A pedestal of stone Where many stop to contemplate Upon the skill and craft displayed, My transformation now complete Into what the sculptor�s hand has made. Douglas Fletcher Sept 27, 2004 |