Sculpture

I've arrived to the day of trepidation and embodied dread,
It shall all finally come down to mere words spoken and said,
If I am now a sculpture whose art was drained and fatefully bled,
Then I am now one that portrays the precise stillness it takes to be dead.

Yet, a pulse, inside this sculpture strives to chaotically beat,
This pulse is of metaphoric substance, thus meaning is concrete,
But how can this one pulse deem a sculpture to be whole and incomplete?
When only of it, does this sculpture seem entirely independent and discrete.

Maybe I am no better a sculpture than I am alive,
Take this pen, and rewrite how I shall come to revive,
Plot how it is... how I struggle with all that which you contrive,
And when all is over, just leave a sculpture of how I came to survive.