Tiercel
Well-known member
In my heart's Acropolis,
Up on the hill
There stands a lone figure
Which frightens me still
With its stern, empty visage
That tells what he's done
And hints at the demon
I may yet become.
He cradles a lute,
With a sword in his hand
As he stands there awaiting,
Surveying the land.
He shoulders a burden unseen,
But won't break-
'Til the Heavens above
Decree such as his fate.
-'Til the Heavens themselves
Force the monument's break.
Men admire his form-
Cold, hard, and unyielding-
Yet the hero forlorn
Stoically stands unfeeling.
And oh! the women
who mourn! They mourn
For the eyes that betray
Heartache without healing!
Each eve they retire
in tears to their homes;
They weep, as the statue stands
Cold and alone.
The children who climb on
him gaily each day
Never give him a thought
as they scurry away
-never once say goodbye
as they hurry away.
So the figure remains there,
his joyment unspoken.
Never shall he part with
any grateful tokens
of joy, pain, or love.
He just stands alone
'Til the day he will part
with a crumbling of stone.
To this day, on the hill
one statue remains
Ne'er breaking, just bearing
a burden of pain
His tired gaze stretching
to a future reprieve.
Yet the statue never ponders
what else he may be
-he stands, not realizing
the statue is me!
This old one captures my mood as of late. Apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, whom I was reading a lot of at the time.
Up on the hill
There stands a lone figure
Which frightens me still
With its stern, empty visage
That tells what he's done
And hints at the demon
I may yet become.
He cradles a lute,
With a sword in his hand
As he stands there awaiting,
Surveying the land.
He shoulders a burden unseen,
But won't break-
'Til the Heavens above
Decree such as his fate.
-'Til the Heavens themselves
Force the monument's break.
Men admire his form-
Cold, hard, and unyielding-
Yet the hero forlorn
Stoically stands unfeeling.
And oh! the women
who mourn! They mourn
For the eyes that betray
Heartache without healing!
Each eve they retire
in tears to their homes;
They weep, as the statue stands
Cold and alone.
The children who climb on
him gaily each day
Never give him a thought
as they scurry away
-never once say goodbye
as they hurry away.
So the figure remains there,
his joyment unspoken.
Never shall he part with
any grateful tokens
of joy, pain, or love.
He just stands alone
'Til the day he will part
with a crumbling of stone.
To this day, on the hill
one statue remains
Ne'er breaking, just bearing
a burden of pain
His tired gaze stretching
to a future reprieve.
Yet the statue never ponders
what else he may be
-he stands, not realizing
the statue is me!
This old one captures my mood as of late. Apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, whom I was reading a lot of at the time.
