The turn of the sixteenth century (that's 1500 for all you math whizzes out there) found me less-than enthused; in fact, I had just about given up hope on ever becoming anything more than a poorly-formed, misshapen hunk of rock. Then one day, the patrons of the cathedral where I was stationed came rushing in, shouting the name of some new artist they had found--"a real prodigy! a Master!" they had said. Well you can bet how excited I was after being treated by the last "master" they'd sent my way, but I figured anything at this point would be better than what I'd been doing for the last two-and-a-half decades. They acclaimed him as the most promising sculptor of the new age ("Renaissance", they called it), for he had completed a most beautiful statue the year prior, which they called La Pieta. I was intrigued by their accolades, but held my peace until I could see firsthand who this man really was.
They called him "Michelangelo".
|As the extra stone came down, so did the walls|
I had built around my heart
Truly this was what I was meant to become.
To be continued...
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