At 31, he felt complete.
Married now, a dad soon.
A big house, he owned cars.
But, something still itched his heart,
A faded meek linger in his ears.
A slow whisper now,
About to dwindle.
But the urge remains.
Once a sculptor,
He swooned hearts.
He moulded expressions out of clay,
Carving prolonging memories.
When all went silent, he heard the call.
A call so true, sweet as music,
The sound of happiness,
Into his laden ears.
Poking him, to embrace the whittler inside.
The calling has arrived.