Man of Stone

A sculpture made of stone may stand alone Or in a room with friends, it makes no difference. The sculpture only stands with folded hands And feet glued at the ends, with great indifference. The sculpture looks ahead, with pupils dead And lips sealed firmly shut, into a lifeless smile. He cannot tell a heart or soul apart, Nor in his empty gut has much been felt a while. The warm imprint, even the hint Of a creator's hand is lost to him by now. The coolest breeze has long since eased Away the brand of love carved in his brow. The softest word cannot be heard Ringing within his dead, dull ears, Turning to ice within his heart precise In form, yet not to beat for years. Now, as he must, he shelters dust Upon his shoulders, sick and dreary, And stands in wait, with heavy weight, His solid bones are weak and weary.