Mountain Whispers
The mountains are our elders, old
They've seen men come and go
From cloudy distance, they've seen ages pass
No matter what has come to change them,
Still they stand, enduring
Casting shadows upon the fishing boats
In placid, silver lakes.
The mountains, our grandfathers,
They mimic time
Watching us with crinkled, amused eyes
Whispering advice to emperors and peasants
Listen, the mountain winds...
Listen to the mountains
On the Sculpture Floor of the Art Museum
A cast of a female
Stands beside the broad door
She's trapped in the bronze
Struggling to be
Her arm is raised in silent horror
It tries to break free
Her sculpted torso is twisted
Like a knarled tree
And is echoed
In her contorted face
But her parted lips betray a calm
There is no scream
I move on.
There are horses
Captured mid-gallop
They shine smooth under the light
There is no dust to stir
The bewildered riders' heads
Permanently caught in the whir
Their mouths are frozen
Crying out to one another
The silence is eerie, unsettling
The air fills and suffocates the scene
It's as if things aren't
Really as they seem
I move on.
Here is a bust
It's a man of white marble
No body attached,
Just a head
It could look as though in pain,
But he stares instead
With beady, blank white eyes.
Only in the dead
Can you find that sort of paleness
His cold expression
Never changing, but oh so real...
Perhaps in the dark, he comes to life
Perhaps they all do
