The witch raced the sun,
sculpting the clay into a paradox of herself,
and she could not stop until the day was done.


Blood, sweat, and tears flew,
as she made, and remade,
each limb and feature, into something new.


Her nose was long and crooked
So she made his short:
No, shorter.
Even shorter, and stern, too.


Her twisted, unsteady hands
worked the clay to make skin and sinew.
And she used her essence to make him real,
before the day was due.


Blood to give him life and color.
Sweat to give him a musty odor.
Tears to give him human emotion.
Steady hands and feet to give him motion.


And when the shadows began reaching for her at near the end of light,
She knew at last, it was time to give him her sight.


She sat back.
Looked one last time at her craft,
Stared where his eyes should be at,
and spat.


Blood rushed to his face,
Sweat beaded at his brow,
Tears streamed down his cheeks
As his heart began to pound.


Short and stern was his nose.
Untwisted and steady were his hands and feet
as he clenched his fingers and toes.


The residue of saliva was sticking to his eyelids,
So he wiped it away.


When he looked, there she lay,
Shriveled by her effort,
Dead in her unspecified grave.


The witch raced til night,
to give him her purpose, her life, and her sight.
And yet in limbs and features, they were nothing alike.
He was exactly her paradox
with only one thing in mind:


First, to clean up her mess,
Then, to sculpt the clay
into a form to paradox himself
Until the dawn of day.