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.
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