Donatello’s marble dirt-
tainted rampant with age,
a face etched by hurt.
On concrete pavements, Roman
roads, stain-draped long
Not tattered by age, but still.
he strolls on monotone-marble.
Ever ceasing creases on robes,
where his eyebrow and forehead
meet. Hand holding slight to keep
from tripping. Mouth ajar,
I stare just as he stares down
a frown of something smaller than he
distant, dead; a friend or kin, me.
Anguish in face against the only bold
statue in the room.
Creating passers to look
in his doom-face-frightened.
separating what could have been
but never will.
Still--I move away, now can sense the fear,
come now to a hearing-heart the
missed notion of death and life.
We now cross paths in a distant world
separated through time
stained by pain, I remember,
in my face and yours.
Created: Feb 22, 2012Yasminxx Document Media