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What The Statue Said
There is a slight pain in my leg
And it seems to be spreading
I guess it is from standing
Too long in one place.
But no one sees the strain in my brow
Or looks to find the pain on my face.
But it doesn't really matter much.
I've long since stopped pondering, stopped caring
About the strangers' endless staring
And their stories that seem never to end
And their strange afterhour parties
That I decorate but can never attend.
I quit counting them long ago.
For life in a museum
Is always more corridors
More whispering, more empty eyes
More thoughts held tight in selfish silence
More stately spaces where all motion dies.
If I don't move soon, it may be too late.
I may be left in the dark here alone.
I may never make it back to the center
Where the lighting makes my shadow grow strong
Where the pedestal just naturally fits
Where I should have been placed all along.
