You planned each stroke
To achieve your intention
You carved a block of marble
Then, you called him ‘son’

You marvelled before
Your masterful creation
Then, you stepped closer
Only to see an imperfection

Hastily, you grabbed the chisel
And kept pounding with dismay
Disfiguring so the tiny mistake
Yet, you still hammered away

In shame, you denied the world
And covered him with sadness
A condemned masterpiece
A sculpture in darkness

“Look at me, dear father!
Look at me closely!
Look at your own doing,
This is me, your son,
Your flesh and blood,
Dying before you…”

But evermore,

This grotesque figure will stand
In a hidden gallery, all alone
As a testament of your failure
The son you made out of stone