A Living Statue

She stands as a frozen, colorless statue; But she is pliable as warm clay. Searching for any remaining virtue, Hidden in a core of unyielding dismay. Is a statue formed by its own hand; Can it chisel its self from the stone; Or mold its self from clay of the land; Can it create its self alone? The artist tries to create the image desired, Is the creation obliged to the creator, To become a work that is inspired, Or the possession of a captor? The statue waits for unbiased opinion, From those who may view her with admiration; To give her strength to create her own dominion, To be her own muse, her own inspiration.