Tuesday, February 5, 2013

the gargoyles.

We wait for death like gargoyles. We have no heart, we are made of stone. We live high up on window sills close to the sky.

We guard the leaving. We did not choose this profession and cannot help but be onlookers to pain. We hear snippets of conversation from inside the building; tiny fragments of full bodied people.

We feel nothing as the time passes. The leaving as always leaving, but we must stay cold; poised for battle. As the leaving stop breathing and their bodies turn to stone, our hearts feel nothing.

The sun glares down on our backs and the wind pounds at our wings. Sometimes the pain we cannot feel (but know exists) splinters at our body. Small cracks appear on the surface and we use the rain to pretend to cry.

The leaving are beautiful and seem better than the rest. We watch over them while we slowly crumble. We perch high above the city and hold our breath.

We are the gargoyles who wait for death, motionless watchmen for the leaving. Their time is coming but we won't let go.