The artist slaves
day after day
endless months
time floods by with
constant hard work.

The stone takes shape,
transforms;
the artist struggles
exhausted
ready to quit
but sees no alternative
continues.

Years of labor and
it's almost done,
only final trimmings remain.
The artist knows
it's no Pietà
but didn't expect it to be.

Never hidden,
people whispered as it morphed
into now; but
when it was finished,
voices pierced the artist.

A friend came and nodded,
said
it is no Pietà
and the artist fell
asleep that night in
a puddle made of tears.

The artist knew
had known
that the masterpiece was
anything but.
Walls crumbled,
a heart broke,
a pity, but
no Pietà.