By brian francis
I have felt you cleaving great pieces from my being.
Leaving me to care for my wounds, whimpering alone,
Like to toss a canvass over me, to conceal my torture,
Until you again choose to sculpt me yet even more.
I am the rough image you coax perfection from within.
Always becoming what you desire – chiseled pieces fall away.
Fearing that a fatal flaw might be found deep within–
to be tossed away with the unwanted shards of my being.
Copyright ©2021 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 