Gargoyle

Gargoyle

Another cold morn
and I, naked as my carving day,
unsheltered from the frost,
am frozen to my stony heart.
I blame the sculptor,
my blesséd maker,
too cruel to give a ghoul
a coat nor roof to ward the rain.
But then to fix me to this corner
lofty, open, weather beaten,
an architect’s jest, I’m sure.
It’s true I get to see for miles
and party to the deeds of men,
I know their secrets, hear their cries,
observe their misadventures.
Yet consider this, my avian friend,
as clear they are within my view,
I’m bare to their so scornful eyes.
I hear their taunts, derision
at these, my ugly features.
Again I point accusing finger
at the one who carved my face;
he it was who dreamed so vile
the look he cast upon me.
Oh, I’m well aware
that my appearance
is thought to scare off demons,
but, if that’s the case,
it’s gratitude is my desert,
not mocking.

So now you’ve heard my story, Walter,
take pity on my troubles.
Remove your pigeon self elsewhere
and leave this stone unmarked.

Line Count: 34
Free Verse