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