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
quietly
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.