I have skirted the bounds of awareness.
In fact, am in a state of denial.
That unseen hands shape, have shaped me,
transforming me all the while.
I am a sculpture of many dimensions,
though not given choice of my medium.
Wishing myself a more malleable clay
than this granite chiseled in tedium.
I watch chunks, chips, flecks fly away
essence of myself lost as dust.
Part of a process seldom to my liking,
dull exterior with too many edges rough.
Surfaces burnished to a reflective sheen,
not-so-solid core vibrates its frequency.
Tremors of doubt from high expectations,
despite my incessant delinquency.
What merit ascribed this abstraction?
Rampant uncertainty, my soul, assails.
I continue to observe introspectively.
What will the Master Sculptor unveil?
M. Zane McClellan
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