Enter Pygmalion Sculptor of my flesh Firm hands of a man Desirous of himself Ego outstripping Lust driving Hard stone chipped The night sounding Like an uneven clock Tic tic tic with nary a toc And the outer shell of my existence Slowly fades Chunks and White marble dust Removed to find my bust My curves My lips My stony eyes Fake garbs With hard wrinkles My shoulders sanded to perfection Carefully crafted collarbone Body finally fully formed The master Artisan Find his own enslavement Obsession with his own creation Thus all other loves pale in comparison Perhaps that is the curse or fate Of all true Artists