Pygmalion
I’ll never be an artist
There is no Creator in my hands
But you, my Dearest,
You I would turn into my own Galatea
I would run my hands over marble skin
remove layers of cloth unworthy to touch your sculpted form
Into your eyes I would pour a soul until your heart would beat
Just for me
The Gods would have no part in this genesis
Only the earthly labours of a mortal
And untrained eyes will never know
Of how I have immortalized You
Your flaw
Your only weakness
is Blindness
Blind of heart and cool of body
I will watch another possess my Masterpiece
As you come alive
Blossom into flesh and blood
The stone cocoon embraces me