To build and to shape

A masterpiece unknown

Each piece of the self

Waiting to be shown

A block of marble

A slab of clay

All see fit to tremble

When the sculptor comes to play

Each of them cries

As bits get chipped away

In service of an art form where they have no say

They’re built to have noses, eyes and ears

But cursed to never smell, see or hear

Their pain goes unnoticed

Their cries go unheard

As their chiseled, cracked mouths cannot say a word

They’re all formed in the image of a singular muse

The form of a woman the sculptor sees fit to use

For his art and his pleasure, among other things

The woman must serve him, despite her misgivings

Although she may cry, although she may scream

The sculptor won’t let her interfere with his dreams

Locked away, in a cage he has made

She’s treated no better than marble or clay

Although she’s alive, although she can speak

Her words have no meaning, nor do her shrieks

Posed like a puppet, and treated as such

She’s resigned to this life, pretends to love it a touch

Her fate isn’t her own, it belongs to the sculptor

Just like the art of which he is the author