The hand that moves in me will move in you
Like fingers that rake through grains of sand
A solid construct of something new
A tender nerve, a swollen gland
The mold was broken long ago
Hence, the need for something fresh
The old ideas are all forego
And long forgotten is the flesh
Another beginning, a different design
A call to arms, a need for legs
A slender rendering of a spine
And eyes comprised of wooden pegs
I’ve done far worse, but not much better
Dolls get smoother skin than this
But I’ve followed your instructions to the letter
It’s the details that were all amiss
I’ve made a few adjustments of my own
Here and there, a memory of me
A scar, a scab, a broken bone
Remains of what I used to be
Thrown together to form a heap
And sculpted from the useless bits
A vessel for my soul to keep
A home where all my frailty fits

— David Allen

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