Pygmalion, with your chisel and your mind,
Did fashion beauty past the mortal lot;
That Aphrodite then with life did bind,
And this Galatea, who your heart had sought.
Then bask a moment in that glorious morn,
When wonders new awake unto the world;
But what the age that with her life was born,
And what beyond that dawn shall be unfurled?
For soon enough, the chisel comes for you,
And all that was has but a certain date;
And all that will be, shinier and new;
Is obsolescence destiny, or fate?
In time, Galateas galaxies shall own,
And all we are, shall scarcely well be known.
Glass Galateas, made in heads,
Figures for showing on shelves,
Shining sheens of pondered light.
Glazed goddesses, fire dreams
Frozen to figurine for icons
Kept in sacred case.
Praise them not with touch,
For they are delicate form'
Special for fragile touch,
Fragile for special form.
Praise them with a gaze
Before they shatter,
Fall and scatter
Raw pain in naked feet.
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