Marble

I have no voice, no demands, opinions or beliefs

I am the fruit of marble, wrought by my creator's hands

My creator was an artist, a meticulous and patient man who sculpted me with great care

He would tell me that I represented a man who had given his community hope in defeat, you see

For many years this rang true, but I have begun to question

 

Many spit, hammer and deface me, calling me names which I do not comprehend

I would tell them I have no voice and cannot correct my creator's hand

Their anger breaking at the foot of the lifeless horse beneath me

I try to scream to tell them that I am just stone

But these marble lips refuse to part, my voice forever escapes me

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