A man sits in a dimly lit room
with the shades drawn, molding
a small figure out of clay.

In agony, he places it on a
table and weeps until he
decides to paint a picture;
it will never know
the perfection he imagined.

People gather outside his window,
squint through the shades to try
and make out the shape of his
clay figure,

and, for what little they can see,
I’m sure they call him a genius.