The Sculpture

The essence rose from the sculptured clay
twirling from decency to immorality.
It broke from within a bottle
insomuch that its mistake gradually
evolved from within the closet. Could
the potter had made such blatant err, in
a mold he fashioned without haste?

The play was swine like
in that it ate away at the flesh
of its own. The make, lifted its apparels
so that any could explore the areas
of contours, even the cloaked moles.
For the secret was hidden in the cut
of make, but for him who thirst,
it beckons come, there lies fun.

I saw the flesh rot in increments
from the proud make, for it had
loved this special beauty with a
soldier's honour. I saw that proud
Peacock's pose, the week before the
revelation broke, that no decency's code
lies in the behaviour of his love.

The land was once again cultivated
by him who lived close with no fear it made a
signpost. The property had no nutrients that any
should want its surface.
Many farmers have used the hoe, and for some
the descriptions are spoken of in common prose.
Therefore, the clay fetched a penny's price.

One specimen had loved the make,
He admired the potter's craft
without seeing the cracks and hidden
perils. Could he be so simple, to be handled
like broken pieces?

The make had thrilled his soul:
For the contours were in their full moon
mode, and had seduced even the heaven's hosts.

Few have farmed on this squatted soil, for none
have stayed but more than once. They boast of a
soldier's conquest for each, many, hoes have
made the grade.


The sculptured clay is now left wanting
for someone not to have heard the words.
We all admired the clay's glory, for we saw the
gem if it were just cleansed of all its waste.


By Paul Andrew Bourne, MSc. (candidate); BSc. (Hons); Dip. Edu.