THE SCULPTOR See, simple submission, perfection of flesh wrought of elemental earth. The rigid unforgiving, molded in betrayal and yielding so ideally. But what of imperfection, and a fire in the eyes that understood but still proceed. The simple supple curves of contradicting human weakness; and genesis through hands so preciously scared with mortality. Passion manifested, something so inhuman, but for the image. Evidence of fertile earth reborn, shadow of the human mold, oh I weep for that beautiful mask. Thick bones, sound muscles, massaging the reddened lines of anger, shaping away the hatred and mimicking desire. Lines and daggers, cruves and pain. Ivestments of a soul in the offerings of a mirror, shallow and rippling, tears and sweat. The intensity of the fingers that grip and create, may life never prove the innocence. Or do you defy? Hands secreting their sweat in the moist yet ceasing flow of the recreation of the strains of humanity in a race of blind men. Mistake of a mortal who always knew what he never was. Man transcending man, trying to prove something more. Salt dissecting the eyes of perfection. He knew what we are, and that in some way we are better. But not like this. Not those hands. Not that earth.
Brian Matthews
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