Smears of acrylic on whitewashed walls – 

a textured semblance of longing.

Could I travel 1000 miles to see it for myself?

Instead I sculpt a formation of features with

fingers sunk deeply into the faintest of gray clay – 

a molding of predictability and ease.

Being known across borders,

yet encapsulated in secrecy, 

am I prisoner or patron of this private gallery? 

With hammer and chisel I strive with sweat pouring

to reveal a face I do not know.

Beyond my reach stands a being exquisite – 

the shape of which my soul perceives before my eyes see.

Floor to wall and wall to ceiling –

imprisoned by a contract, concrete-clad.

When paint turns to dust, clay hardens,

and the stranger’s statue shatters – 

I feel relief at last.

Step outside this studio of pretend – 

behold the rush of air.

To feel your…