The Statue

With the moon up on high and winds below,
A cool summers night saw no clouds above,
In the courtyard grew a weeping shadow,
Blackened and cold in the absence of love.
The figure loomed overhead above all,
A marble mountain many good men tall.

The figure stood firm, stood strong, without fear,
But looked akin to a corpse in rigor,
No matter how seen, neither far nor near,
He stood awkward, in pain did the figure.
No expression sad, joyed upon the face,
Nailed and held, without question, in his place.

The solid legs looked like logs, thick and wide,
Each carved straight about a shoulder apart,
And two became one when viewed from the side,
While the knees buckle from the trunk to cart.
Guarded by a small loin cloth legs are bare,
He caries burdens, his alone to share.

Massive shoulders attach the arms to him,
Grafting great weapons to the man of stone,
Those arms that did in a great river swim,
Through blood that was shed in his quiet home.
While they hung there lifeless they were painted,
For blood spilt by a man now sedated.

Carved to be bald, no hair to hide a part,
Soft eyes are down-turned so none can stare in,
Looking forever where should be the heart,
The mouth closed tight, and sad above the chin.
A face of no emotion, no feeling,
He stands alone, all eyes on him, seeing.

Night turns to dawn and the morning awakes,
Light falls upon dew glistening grass,
A gentle wind drops water as leaves shake,
Townsfolk chitchat, stop and stare, the way passed.
Still he stands, still he watches, not knowing,
The number of moons falling, suns rising.

Now morning has well and truly set in,
People busy going about their lives,
Content to see without, look not within,
No more our concern, than workers from hives.
And so they pass him, never think to care,
There is, hidden, alone, a man in there.

His is a sad story, one full of grief,
Tragedy for all, those gone and those left,
Forever damned to this cell, no relief,
Place in death for him left the gods bereft.
Left in a stone tomb twice, two times he died,
Here there is no death, all but, never fired.

Inside the man moves, his arms swing and such,
Legs twitch and shake, up and down, all around,
Only small, the marble giant lacks much,
Room, static motion, a new torture found.
Not going anywhere, but not stopping,
Body moves leaving the mind convulsing.

In a marble statue, it should be black,
No sweet sight to see, or warm light to feel,
There is the blinking, visual attack,
Thus adding torment, the mind left to reel.
A strong, quick light breaks the dark, piercing eyes,
Stabbing the mind left alone, so it dies.

The mind is all but dead, gone, when revived,
By a sound, alone in its form, changing,
Loud, then soft, the fragile mind has survived,
To be attacked then aurally, the screaming.
A twin assault on the senses both paired,
While left taste and smell and touch he is spared.

Screaming never ends, but changes always,
And the light won’t leave, but then will not stay,
His crimes, punishment he forever pays,
Compensation, justice, there is no way.
Torment unending, never relenting,
Not enough to satisfy the mourning.

The end of the day the sun sets, gentle,
The townsfolk are inside still not knowing,
In a statue mind and madness wrestle,
Back and forth, attacked inside unending.
All the while the marble stands tall and proud,
Casting shadows that weep silent and loud.