His fingers move the clay
all indents and curves
pieces catching under his nails
with breath he gives life
to this soil
gives form a purpose
tiny droplets crease his brow
keeping count of hours spent
forgoing rest
until the final day
when satisfied, he rises
wiping his hands
on red-stained trousers
and there it stands
his soul trapped forever
in blood, mud and toil
he sits down and sighs
and with crooked smile
reflects
before he closes his eyes
[bctt tweet=”DARK POETRY – ‘Sculptor’ by Tina McFarlane @Tina_Mcfarlane” username=”theboldmom”]
