She was a work of art
Whom I studied from afar.
Beauty, yes, she had,
But also perfection,
As if more time had been taken
In forming her than the entire museum.

Long weeks I stood, and studied,
And admired. But she could not hear --
Ears of stone catch not the critic.

I reached out and touched her and -- lo! --
She came to life, I Pygmaelion!
And she regarded me with eyes no longer stone,
Living eyes more beautiful -- somehow -- than their initial cold, hard gray.

But all I could see was a sculpture, still.
She moved, and walked, and I stood still:
The critic, admirer, now silent as stone.
She was Medusa --
Not literally!
But still I was turned to stone.

As she came to life, so I froze.

Now she walks in open daylight
And I gather dust where her feet once were.
I traded a magnifying glass for a pedestal,
Her life for my silence, and my heart
For a cold, hard rock.