the sculptor

Endless sheets of clay
How I wished you'd be my project
A muse worth dry baked hands
And earth stained shirts.

You, a perfect subject
Flawless and perfect
A body like any elegant gazelle
A beauty deserving an eternal portrait

Refuse me on the third request
Clay cracks dryly in my hands
Molding and kneading to no avail
A creationless creator

The water for my media are my tears
Fingers clutching and grasping heartlike clay
The awe inspiring spectacle
That I cannot create that of which I love.