He comes home with a bundle of clay.
Both he and his wife move clean hands
over it and already it begins
to mold and shape in their design.
Each touch of their nurturing hands makes
the form a little clearer, just a
bit more human. Soon they must leave this
beauty in a foreign public place.
Other hands touch this angelic artwork,
and in time pieces and fragments are lost
in the clutch of misguided palms,
storage ideas, and warped beliefs.
In time this sculpture forms fangs and claws,
the owners try and save what they can,
but end up crying, bitten
by their own creation of good intent.