Sculpture: A Saturday Poem

Sculpture

She is one.
She breathes, moves, thinks.
Lives. But she is one. Along
with the attributes of mortals,
the side of her stuns.
Her hair will turn you to stone.
And her eyes, make you cry.

The walls of a room fall out.
She entered, and caused every
boundary to flee.
In panic?
No.
Not in panic. In a rush,
towards, not away.
Yet, with a trembling hand

one will reach, one will
peer. And neither, breathe.
Will she move, if I,
with my lips, with my lips
move her? Will I?

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009