The clay waits dreadfully

Each morning goes by

The sculptors hands blister

The clay is stretched

The sculptor is stressed

To him nothing is a work of art

The clay is tired

So is the sculptor

One is morphed into something it's not

One is sculptung his loss

Both have anger

Maybe for one another

But the sculptor sculpts

Even with his hands blistered

And the clay sits there silently

It says nothing

Because it just wants to be pretty

Both rely on eachother

Hating one another

The unsaid words lurk

But no one bothers