THE SCULPTURE
Etiolated,
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.
Etiolated.
Emaciated,
Sliced to the bone,
With a face
Carved from suffering.
Still standing, though.
So maybe it is
A true likeness.
©2022 Gwen Grant
Poems by Gwen Grant 
That is a very reflective poem and a satisfying one!! But how did I get to this age and not know the word etiolated?? 😉
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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.
Gwen.
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I did – very much! 🙂
Haha, it is a good word. Well chosen! 🙂 🙂
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Me too! ‘etiolated’ this word had me reaching for my dictionary! No bad thing!!! Great poem, as always!
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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.
Gwen.
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Couldn’t agree more! I also love words! All the very best!
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