Pieces of Me

Michelangelo chipped away

Flecks of stone

Like so many toenails discarded

by a small choice.

Razor thin or chunks.

Each day his work was swept away,

left in the street and covered by dust.

The forgotten pieces of his work

mauled and crushed by the everyday.

He could not breathe life into stone,

but left eternal alabaster forms.

Like stone, I have been chipped and polished,

But cannot escape the rot of death.

The pieces of me left behind

will have to suffice.

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