Perched above the madness,
waiting with the grimmest purpose,
Gargoyle surveys the ants below,
their blustery hustle to and fro.
With centuries beneath his gnarly claws
he feigns a wisdom deep,
when all he craves both night and day
is but a chance to sleep.
For sculptor’s hands in finest form denied the beast the skill
Of exerting tiny muscles
When weariness sets in.
Ages upon ages his gaze
is fixed in weathered stone,
with no respite from this world
he abides in all alone.