if but stone
* In memory of the great Charles Laughton, who brought charm and tenderness to a monster with his rare form of melancholy genius *
~
on the ledge …
of majestic Notre Dame
he watched attentively through his one good eye -
far, far below, the throng closed
ranks around Esmerelda as she ran into the
arms of her prince, waiting …
oh, how his soul ached and shattered
heart as big as the grotesque hunch on his back -
how he wished them both … gone
he had fought to near death to keep her
safe in the ramparts, yet now he
realized that she had wanted to leave all along -
that he had fought for a forsaken cause …
so foolish - so stupid,
as stupid as he was hideous and deformed
what horrid trick this, that made him
want something so unattainable?
why had he EVER believed she could love him?
she had wanted his help - he KNEW it!
and yet now ...
proof of an otherwise opposite reality lay at
his ugly, clubbed feet -
the bells still pounding air against his
chest and deaf, cauliflower ears …
rain pouring from the darkening gray Parisian skies
dripping off the eyes of the
carved gargoyles that surrounded him
as if they too were weeping for his hapless sake
but they couldn't be, lifeless and cold ...
"oh, to be stone like these", he mumbled
his last breath escaping ...
to the night mist.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden
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