The Sculptor

By Diya Sood

To touch a soul.

What must it feel like?

It seems like some are tainted.

Twisted. 

Tortured. 

Agonized, even.

When does it end? 

I'm no master.

Not a sculptor, most definitely.

No Michelangelo.

Unaware we roam.

Trying, 

Tumbling, 

Rolling down, 

Falling away from grace

And yet – 

Thriving.

The race continues,

The clock ticks,

And the road continues all until it ends.

All of it ends.

A dramatic film roll is out of time.

Books with silly notes and scribbles, all worth everything, and now yet, nothing.

It ends. 

I said I'm no master.

No sculptor.

Unaware we roam certainly, 

until we see a faint light.

Perhaps, it should be light.

Should it not?

And finally,

At the judgment, 

But, do we realize —

To touch a soul, 

Is merely nothing

Until you've been through it all.

The tumbling.

The falling. 

And so –

Forget not, 

For even the maestro,

Tainted the beings with shades of dark.

Gave them shadows,

To keep the secrets of the past.

By Diya Sood