The Statue
Narrative:
There it is.
Black cars stroll past and
black clothed people coast by it.
Day in, day out unnoticed.
Some remember it, a Virgin Mary,
but others know not his face.
None see his tears. Tumble and drop
out of that dying face.
The indentation of his clavicle and soft
crook of his elbow,
once homes of nests of birds
fore they moved, the homes razed
to the ground.
All day long,
day in and day out,
he whispers to the wind:
“Love me.”
Confessional:
I once walked by a certain statue
every single day. I rarely
really saw
it.
But when I did.
A hand stretched out,
a finger maybe beckoning.
Marble tearful eyes, focusing so surely.
White lips parted, wet moist blackness inside.
Eternal stone of fleeting
lasting misery.
Fear.
Fear I felt.
This image of a man
not an image, a prison.
This stone, such despair,
and all I could do was walk away.
