A silent, stony sentinel sits in solitude,
his angry brow staring into the crimson throne,
his hollow frame the shape of some ancient warhorse,
his masterful marble mane moving mightily 'round his crown,
his frigid face furrowed with the fierce force of a fine faceplate,
his weary eyes whispering the witness of too many woeful wars.
A base of plain wood, contrasting his splendor, displays
a gleaming golden nameplate and lifts him up atop
a pillar of blackness as he defends an oriental rug.
In the sixth year of his vigilance still he stands,
grim green glaring through the
gargoyle's guard, amidst books and
binders, couches and computers, meandering
masses who know not the era for which he was forged.