Broken

A sculptor
stands at a 
work table,
staring at 
his masterpiece.
A face 
of an unknown
stranger,
sits on an armature,
staring back at him.
And, 
as he takes his last look,
turns away,
he bumps the table's corner.
Down
falls the stranger,
down to the floor.
'Crash',
sounds the stranger,
as it collides with tile.
Gone,
goes the stranger,
for the only remnants of 
its face,
are shattered shards 
of the dried clay
that once made it
to be.
The sculptor watches,
listens,
and sees his weeks of work
become fallen,
broken.
Down
sinks the sculptor,
down to his knees.
'Sob',
sounds the sculptor,
as his tears fall aimlessly.
Gone,
go his dreams
of presenting this piece,
this stranger,
as his work of art. 
But after a moment,
his tears stop falling.
After a moment, 
he stands up,
walks to his stranger,
and sweeps it away,
watching it for the
very last time.
He begins to cut,
to smooth,
to sculpt another,
and though it will 
never be truly the same 
as the first,
the sculptor's dream 
to create his own work of art
will always be the same.