Sculpting Souls – Original Poem

scuplt1With the gentleness of his shaking hands, he molds the clay
Weariness on his aging leather skin; deep breathes hoping this one won’t be the last
A sculpture of souls

Now, his mind grows confused
Once a leader guided by the spirits in the clouds; now a relic, soon to be mourned under the basking sun

His hands hold a lifetime of healing; touching the soft petal of a flower; dropping grains of sand to the ocean like an hourglass; singing with the birds the harmony of nature

A warrior whose hands have not killed
A healer; a medicine man whose only cure was to swallow the essence of life

Now his hands saturated in a river of pain; too brittle to pray

This sculpture of souls pouring the memories of his childhood into a room of a skeletal remains

What become of his life; lost loves; dreams and hopes?
A mortal who reaches for immortality
So close to the clouds; so far from a home he once knew

hands1Now is a time to rest
To sleep under the stars that have protected him in all his journeys
He will think of her as his mind races for a dream world
Tonight he imagines one more sunrise

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