Crimson tears stained his face.
It hurt, but now he knows his place.
Turn flesh to wood, turn time to stone,
Carve face and hand for metal bone.
Unseeing eyes made of glass
Stare blankly out as hours pass.
No time wears on his creations,
But no man escapes its ruminations.
The dolls sit endlessly, alert,
As motionless as time, inert.
The final doll lays alone,
What becomes of him, unknown.
Settled there in defeat,
Sedentary, forever incomplete.