Poem #21: David

You are

the most beautiful

statue —

poised. smooth. chiseled.

on a 7-foot high pedestal

in an art museum which requires security.

You have a

permanent semi-smile

etched across your face,

and your thighs

are like glass,

strong yet delicate,

defined and lifelike,

but there's no blood

running through your

plaster-cut veins.

Thousands of people

pass your exhibit

each day,

wondering who you are,

and how you were created.

They stand in awe — momentarily —

appreciating your detail,

the fine craftsmanship,

the lengths at which

you were uncovered.

But no one wonders

about the artist?

How you came to life

in their mind?

Why you were

what they envisioned?

You are but

a figment of their

imagination,

a snapshot in time,

a piece of cold rock

that someone else

found interesting.

You aren't special on your own.

When the crowd

is done site-seeing for the day,

they'll remember

your name

and how you made them feel

and then

they'll move on

to more interesting

artwork.

You may be a

masterpiece

(in your own mind),

but you'll never

master the piece

of me

who can see

what you really are —

a lifeless, soulless boulder

that someone else had

to chip away at.