Sculpted

His name is poison on your tongue,
His blushing ways astray.
And as you lie, buttons undone,
You are shaped as if of clay.

He takes your breath and makes it his.
He replaces it with lust.
His hands, a chisel, his words, a palette,
Of true denying trust.

You shiver gently at the thought.
It is not as you may think.
And so he takes the pure white paint,
And pours it down the sink.

Water washes away the art,
what was left of all the rest.
An unfinished piece lay at his feet.
A mix of colors betray the breast.

The clay has cracked, because so dry,
with painful lines of fear.
You think yourself of ugly art,
The message, not so clear.

You are lost without a brush,
A sculptor with no thought.
You had never found the classic shape,
Of which you often sought.

And so he leaves, his tools away,
As you lie broken on the ground.
You are an amazing work of art,
What he lost, I know have found.