An artist he is,

with skills extravagant,

scissors stone like paper,

He carves, not an art,

life he creates, He calls it magic on his part,

He is a sculptor, who engraved his name on my heart,

After putting it’s pieces together, in a pattern that it beats with his presence,

Risk halt on his depart,

His hands moves gracefully on me,

Tenderly, seperating the undesirable portions of me,

It defiled my beauty, He said,

I was pure and bland, crumpled with cynisicm of my worth,

Which He says, he understands,

With his chisel and mallet,

He evoked a soul,

In my figure of stone.


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