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| Barry Windsor Smith |
My outstretched hand, stone and ivy coiled, reaches out forever for your retreating form, obscured by the mist rain of magic and loss.
But my face has turned, cracked the plaster crust of the past’s claim to sacrosanctity; my hand may long but my mind’s moved on.
And under the skin I tap the vein that carries my spirit in a rush of melancholy joy at my own ability to exist independent and unreachable to the thoughts of others.
This statue was sculpted by the hand of becoming but it will not remain against the erosive force of being.
It is not skin that defines memory but blood and guts, heart and the blade of thought.
But my face has turned, cracked the plaster crust of the past’s claim to sacrosanctity; my hand may long but my mind’s moved on.
And under the skin I tap the vein that carries my spirit in a rush of melancholy joy at my own ability to exist independent and unreachable to the thoughts of others.
This statue was sculpted by the hand of becoming but it will not remain against the erosive force of being.
It is not skin that defines memory but blood and guts, heart and the blade of thought.
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