To think that when I look at all the stars in the sky,
And realize they may have died countless years ago
As I sit on a puddle of earth admiring their faded glory,
Wondering if I could match their light.
To look upon the endless desert sands that have consumed the earth,
And ask myself if this existence has consumed the spark of life and mind
I am not very proud or boastful now.
Yet my eyes stray back to the skies, the endless expanse that lies before me
And I make shapes and patterns of messages left behind
And try to carve sense where perhaps there is none.
But what else to do with the sculpture's mind except
Mold a convenient, pretty reality.
