Arms and hands
Dropping down the body.
Long thin fingers
Scraping the stone
They were made of.

So thin,
Even if it had come to life,
It could never have walked.
Never have set its bony feet
On the dust beneath them.
Or balanced on toes
That needed
A much better covering.

Yet the whole of this sculpture,
Is presented as love.
Sliced to the bone,
With a face
Carved from suffering.

Still standing, though.
So maybe it is
A true likeness.

              ©2022 Gwen Grant

6 thoughts on “THE SCULPTURE

  1. Glad you liked the poem. I loved the stone boat Post. Terrifying and exhilarating.
    As for ‘etiolated’ – this is the first time I’ve used it in a poem.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Glad you liked it, Sharon. The word was the one that pushed its way into the poem!
    I love words and the way they behave. Thank you for your comment.

    Liked by 1 person

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