High on the parapet sit I who
Looks forever toward the sky
And the voices below, bellow
'Never look behind!'
For I cannot be defined by my past
Though I ask myself
As the elements strip away
A little more of me
Each day, where did it go
All the gilding and gold?
I am a sculpture
Crumbly and cold.
And who said nothing can stop you
Except for yourself?
Some gargoyle mouldering on a shelf.
I am a sculpture shaped by the weather
My hands are rough
My skin is like leather.