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My father bought a granite slab,
he'd chip all day at stone.
Though his fingers bled so much,
he chipped until they were bone.

Night and day he'd chip away,
fragments filled the room.
What was his motivation?
What was in this granite womb?

Shards of light fell on the room,
dust clung to every beam.
His sculpture seemed to have a beating heart,
the sculptor fell back with a scream.

From within this lonely tomb,
the blind were made to see.
Forever, I'll have my fist to my brow,
forever my elbow to knee.

I think I am alive,
I think that I can think.
I think that I have eyes,
I just can't make them blink.

I think I'll stay in this position,
permanently ******.
You may never hear my voice,
from the stone, I've only groaned.








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