Sculptures

A remarkable feat it sure is, for some to reduce the locus of their drying affection and empathy until even the most innocuous birds flock away from the paths they tread upon. Have they, in the process of crafting beautiful sculptures of vanity-ridden esteem, also forgotten the bystanders silently hovering around the klin, uttering their own private prayers and scavenging for waste materials to manufacture their own sculptures? And how perfectly rational it seems, to reciprocate the heartless flinging of caustic clay into the eyes of the less fortunate! A misfortune it is, that they exhaust the essence of their spirit and compassion, perhaps when glossing over the ostentatious artefacts that symbolise their existence. A layer of paint fades away with the ravages of time, but a fine dosage of gloss ensures the longevity of their sculptures, to be sanctified on the altars of little temples. Had I a choice, I would gleefully elect out of my station, wash the clay away from my eyes, pick up a dusty broom and sweep around the corners of these false sanctuaries, never entering, never departing, just quietly sweeping my days away, with an occasional smile at the tiredness of it all.