The air smelled of incense, rosemary, expectations immense;
melodrama choked the air, almost scary, building suspense.
Hands like clever mice, working the tools with feverish fingers,
arms drenched in congealed grease, a sawdust smell lingers.
His arms were frail, breathing shallow, watching his creation.
countenance pale, wisps of gray hair trembling in expectation.
A twisted figure lay infront of him, limbs in irregular positions.
Its hair was crudely trimmed, arms risen in simple submission.
His fists balled, perspiration a pool in which he was immersed,
another creation flawed, just another product of the universe.