Stone waits
until touched.

He did not smooth
what the world called rough-
he listened
to the tremble beneath marble,
to muscles caught
between motion and pause.

A hand,half-formed,
says more
than perfection ever could.

Figures lean
into themselves,
as if thought
had weight,
as if pain
could press through granite
like breath.

He did not sculpt
to imitate flesh-
he sculpted
so soul
might cast a shadow.