Photo by Christopher Czermak on Unsplash

One day I will be in the arms of a sculptor,
And my body will be clay beneath their hands.
I will be David to Michelangelo,
A Thinker to the master Rodin,
Or the wingèd Nike to their talented eyes.
It matters not that I am but finely made dust,
Not imbued with the grace of white marble.
To this master I am nothing short of perfection.
They will hold the materials in their palms,
And I will take shape as a marvel to their wide eyes.
I have always had the beauty therein,
The possibility of Praxiteles within my form.
But with a touching caress I will emerge;
Alexandros’ Venus free to walk the world.

Posted by:isabellahume

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