are you ready to become
said the sculptor

the center of that dark room
the cold marble was silent
but it shivered

the sculptor took his knife
twirled it in his hands--
the blade, (yes, knife,
as stone would become flesh)
a hot and shining sun
he twirled the long handle

pale and dead as the embers of moonlight
that danced around it
waves of veins sprung forth
black as deep blood--

but they were not to escape
the fine thin skin that coated
the flesh that had once been stone

the dark lingered in the new eyes
in the new heart
the old soul
a sparkling shadow of the deeper past

and the sculptor was silent
the sun rose in hues
russet like the blood on his knife

his creation
scarred and beautiful
thanked him
said farewell

and the sculptor was silent
and the sculptor smiled