“The Statue”

In the midst of untimely ocean waves

a tiny continent sits and broods.

Crabs silently click along the sand

seagulls perch atop leafy palms and look down

where old turtles peek out from their shells

and monkies pray and shout, dropping fruit as tribute.

They all stare at a misshapen rock,

jaggedly odd from the surrounding boulders,

stone obsidian and form terrible against the sun.

From the base of dirt rises, first, angled horse legs,

stout legs that daily conquer field and range.

The body is a dashing rock frozen in time

and the mane a sharp grey shriek of war.

The nostrils two scents for the damned,

the teeth a murderous snarl,

the eyes regal and intent.

But the beastly terror is owned

by two other legs jutting from its slated ribs.

Army boot and calvary thighs twist into

tall and straight back indented slab of black.

Symbols molded into the chest,

palpitations of a stony heart,

medals of honor to duty of country.

The right hand salutes across the brow,

gaze fixed toward sunrise, horizon, and sunset.

The eyes themselves,

calm as a mother’s,

cheeks, soft as a bride’s,

the smile, could be a woman’s too.

The hat is a double edged, rimmed, ancient sword

and the curvy hair a scream trying to break through tomb.

And the left hand seems to hold an extention;

Shaped like a finger of judgment,

a long gun unmolested by pitiful rain

points its barrel at the soldier’s brain.

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