All his life is ivory
And white, smoothing bland
Shades of calm marble
Etchings from sand.
The turrets are sharpened
To hold him back
From jumping into blissful abyss.
The cool stone turns black
From frozen grimace.
His tools turn blunt
In the hope of carving escape
In a masonic stunt.
His hands turn grey
And he grows statue still
In his granite world
On his sanded sill.
An ivory life
In the tall, white tower.
