The Sculptor (2 of 7)

The Sculptor-angel

(Credit: From ‘The Sculptor’ by Scott McCloud)

He is ‘The Sad Man’

The play revolves around him

The angel is real


All ‘The Sculptor’ haiku are inspired by the comic ‘The Sculptor’ by Scott McCloud



I’ve fallen in love with an angel.

She blinded me with her beauty; her wings were so white it was as if they had a light of their own. I’m getting used to the cane, but it has made it more difficult to meet up with her in areas which I’m not familiar with.

She’s going back to heaven soon which is sort of the problem; it’s the reason I’m here. You see, I’d like you to kill me. Because then it won’t be suicide and then I might have a chance. And just in case it doesn’t work, could you give her my heart?

Falling from Somewhere Unknown

Fountain of the Falling Angel

Fountain of the Falling Angel (Photo credit: Daniel Coomber)

He is tumbling towards the earth, and the first thing that goes through his mind is:

‘Where are my wings?’

Did he forget them? Drop them? He should have clung to them like a monkey to a tree branch above a lake full of crocodiles because without them, they will surely eat him up down there. Or he could have clung to the sun. Except maybe this was the sun’s fault. Maybe it burnt up his wings or melted them; maybe it thought he was Icarus.

He should have clung to the moon. He might have frozen, but at least he would still have been closer to the stars. And he deserved being closer to the stars. Was he not beautiful? Was he not wise? In fact, was he not the most beautiful and the wisest there ever was? He was that unique being. No, he IS that unique being, he is sure. And where he came from was a wonderful place, although he seems to have forgotten exactly what it was like. The picture of the place is like a vague dream. Like soft clay it changes form as he grips it, and as he squeezes, it flows out between his fingers and falls apart beyond any recognition. The Silver City? Maybe. Heaven? Possibly. No matter what it was and who threw him out, he will get back there; he swears that to the sky.

With the oath on his lips, he finds his wings, large, swan-like wings and he turns his fall into a graceful glide.

The Angel

Angel 013

Angel 013 (Photo credit: Juliett-Foxtrott)

There is an angel at the back of the garden between the shrubs and the hedge. She has been there for a long time. Her dress is tangled in bindweed and moss is creeping up her neck. One of her wings has crumbled slightly. In the right light the white flowers at her feet look like stars.

I visit her irregularly. Some months it is almost every day, other months I do not visit her at all. I have often contemplated removing some of the weeds, but I am always too far from her to do it.

When I visit her in the rain, she weeps. But even when it is dry everywhere else that place smells of damp earth.

I do not know who put her there or why. It seems like a lonely place to leave her.

But what I really wonder is,
does anyone other than I see her beauty?


Every night I look down on their houses as they turn out their lights, and wish that my wings had never been clipped.  Sometimes I even wish that he had just let me fall, like the others. Instead of this hiding and clinging to stars.

I am so close to the sky. Sometimes I think that if I could just remember exactly how it was to soar through it, I would be able to again, and I could soar up, up all the way to heaven and then maybe he would…

Maybe he would strike me down,

Maybe clip my wings again.

Maybe he would just destroy me and have done with it.

Perhaps that would be better. To have it over and done with. But, where do angels go when they die?

I cling to my star.

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