The Sculptors

We were told death was stone,  

a law cut into bone,  

cold as gravity, old as rust.  

But stone can be shaped by hands.  

And these hands were ours.

We carved an ending into the marble  

because we thought edges made things beautiful.  

Called it “natural” the way we call  

a funeral beautiful: with flowers  

to hide the wood of the box.

Hell, at least, posts its signage in fire.  

No footnotes. No branding strategy.  

It says I am what burns and means it.  

We say I am what heals while picking at the scab.  

We say I am what loves while keeping the receipts.  

We are deep because we are dishonest.  

The abyss has levels. The lie has architecture.

If mortality was a preference,  

then so is the pretending.  

So is the mask that swears it’s a face.  

So is the story we tell about the mask  

while the face underneath forgets its shape.

Maybe the first sin wasn’t disobedience.  

Maybe it was taste.  

We chose the tragic arc.  

We chose the third act.  

We chose the curtain.

So when they ask why we gutter out  

like candles in a drafty room,  

tell them:  

We liked the way the shadows danced.  

We thought it looked like meaning.

And if we ever choose otherwise,  

let it not be to escape the fire—  

but to admit we were the ones  

holding the match.

-𝕃ℝ 🖤