The Sculptors

The Sculptors 

by Denise Fuehrer Burnette


We are the Sculptors

shaping the face of possibility

molding tomorrow

into something meaningful


The tools of our ancestors

lie dull and broken

at our feet

as the clay of life

hardens in our hands


An unfinished masterpiece

taunting us

its ruinous and misshapen features

an excuse for our indifference


In rage and desperation

we point the finger of blame

at Them


But then we notice our hands

soiled with dry earth

we notice

beneath our fingernails

the remains of a hard day’s work

and we realize…

We ARE Them.

Our hands

are shaping the future


And so we cry

and laugh

and live

with a passion forbidden to those

who passed before us


We pray

although we know not to whom

for the strength

the courage

to put aside

these molds of times past

so tight and clinging

crumbling fast

from the force

of minds and hearts

opening in desperation


On our knees we crawl

through shards of shattered illusions

collecting fragments

of others’ revelations

searching for useful remnants

among the scraps

of yesterday’s truth


Where do we begin?

we ask ourselves

paralyzed by the same freedom

we fought long and hard for

in another lifetime


Where do we begin?


The question echoes

through the hollow chamber

of our soul…

still no answer


And so we sit


in the darkness

haunted by the ghost

of our imagination


We wait

and listen

and eventually

we learn

how to wait

and how to listen


And just as the last grain of sand

passes through our hourglass of hope

we hear a voice…


The Muse has spoken:


Begin with the heart

she whispers


Begin with the heart.

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