The Sculptor Who Breathed Stone

The Sculptor Who Breathed Stone

Stone trembled under his hands,

folding into faces

that whispered silently

through the marble veins.

The hammer moved itself,

pressing rhythm into the walls,

and I felt the dust

curling around my chest like smoke.

Eyes emerged slowly,

frozen yet alive,

staring into corners

where light could not reach.

Even the chisels hummed,

pressing vibrations

into the floor,

like a heartbeat pressed into stone.

I touched a cheek,

and it shivered,

folding centuries

into my fingertips.

The room breathed quietly,

filled with shapes

that were never meant to exist,

and I realized

art could remember the living.