Mr. statue, please teach me your stoic ways.

I want to learn of your expressionless grin.

And of your calloused skin.

Of stone you stand,

And deny the passage of sentiment.

You stand complacent,

With your façade of stolidity.

It must be nice, to be made of stone.

To let affect remain unbeknown.

With such a passive disposition,

You must be content with your composition.

But, tell me mr. statue,

When the lights go out,

Does your expression change?

Do your eyes close and stance weaken?

Does your smile turn to frown

When you realize you are alone,

And made of stone?

I should not envy your resilience.

For it is illusory brilliance.

There is no plasticity in stone.

Only cold reticence and indifference.

Your figure performs a semblance of a man.

Head, body, hands, and feet.

But, nevertheless, you are incomplete,

For your external shield of rock blockades your soul.

Tell me mr. statue,

Does it exhaust you to stifle your soul?

To feign placidity?

Does it suck you dry to remain so dispassionate?

The sun will fade your luminous façade.

The rain will erode your barrier of stone.

Your body will disintegrate before your stolid eyes.

And your soul will be exposed.

Tell me mr. statue,

What will you have then,

But crumbles of your own existence?

I thought I could learn from you,

Become stronger through you,

But… then again, I’ll make my own way through.



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