Monument To the Old Me
Lurking amongst shabby, impenetrable, undergrowth,
cloistered effigy is sheltered from casual view,
languishing, neglected, forgotten... but content.
No longer possessing a name; no longer serving a purpose;
whatever inscription once etched thereupon is
long-since faded, lost to the whimsical wisps of time.
In bygone years, its bronze cheeks would be flushed;
embarrassed, apologetic even, for its very existence.
Wriggled under the weight of myriad strangers' eyes,
recoiled from attempts to elicit illicit secrets,
perennial trepidation of exposure to ridicule.
But that was in the past... before the truth was embraced.
It can no more alter who it is than it can deter
the sun from setting, dissuade the tides from rising
or discourage the Earth from spinning on its axis.
And it has no wish to do so.
Feathered vermin perched atop its head defecate,
careless and carefree, contributing to the
guano collage caked on its carved countenance;
the similitude is not lost on it.
So it sits... silent and unobtrusive; stoic but stalwart:
the epitome of art imitating life imitating art.
Languishing, neglected, forgotten... but content.
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Written 1 September 2017
Entered in "A Poem I Wrote and Sent Drifting" Contest, sponsored by Broken Wings (judged 11 October 2017).
(7th Place)
Originally for "Artwork" Contest (judged 6 September 2017)
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2017
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