The Statue

To stroll through parks on sunlit winter’s days,

I come across a man made out of stone

Who shirks away from all the sun’s warm rays,

To live in dark, where ne’er a light has shone.

I rant and rave and try to tear him down,

And screaming, break my knuckles on his bust

If I could usurp him and take his crown,

Then surely I can render him to dust.

To stand and wait for such a man to break,

To prick his skin in hopes that he would bleed

To wound him thus, revenge I could not take,

But fail to follow through the beastly deed.

I find his soul a much more fragile thing,

To see him crumble down – to hear me sing.