The Sculptor Stopped at the Curls

Tue, 02/03/2015 - 13:57 -- santeau

Soft hands curved these
dark, cracked lips,
always stained with
bright red paint
long made part of the skin.

These lips that grin,
that laugh,
that don't drink enough water.
That spit facts and
murmur phrases of affection.

Strong hands crafted these
imperfect eyes,
slightly uneven but with
a color so lovely, one
can forgive them for asymmetry.

Eyes and lips laugh together,
frown together, hide together,
Pursed or closed or shifted
down to the floor
With the awkwardness common.

But skillfull hands had to stop,
once they reached the rest.
For frizzy curls and freckles,
lovely as they are,
don't fit well in a perfect sculpture.

This poem is about: 
Me

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