Pygmalion

As I hammer your cold self all night long

I work madly chiselling your body

Making art as a satyr might create song

through craze, Aphrodite I embody

It is finished, the work of Gods surely

A marble person, yet alive through love

Dare I touch them? Their skin, colour pearly?

Hair real as mine? Skin softer than a dove?

But as I dare touch their beautiful frame

My fingers only reach cold, hard, marble

The body that so sets my heart aflame

I try to speak but hear only garble

As I stand in that room, alone with statue

Tears roll down my face, wet, hot, and deep blue