Turpitude words (Word 1)
What shape am I?
Nothing, I’m just a lump of dirt
But I have some mobile futures, four limbs, and a head
Who am I?
I see the perfect ones, clays molds that are perfect sculptures
One by one, sculpture after sculpture, they try to make me beautiful
But the sculpting tools they want to use look gruesome
They aren’t very happy when I escape
But these extreme measures are things I’m not willing to take.
I find the twisted ones, the other clay molds with no actual form
Just irregular monstrous shapes that don’t take kindly to me
They Are scavengers, who will take clay from other clay molds
And give themselves artificial shape, even if itś clay from their own
I don’t give up my body for salvageable body parts, and I fight my way through
Until I'm nowhere to be seen and the light is dimmer in view
I am lost and all alone, everybody wants me dead
The sculptures want me rearranged
And the twisted ones want me torn apart
Where will I go? Every corner is death
But finally, I come upon a demon in the making
A giant hand hidden within the shadows
Wearing sculpting gloves with residue all over them
Is he the maker? The one who sculpts us all?
