I'm propped up in the busy roundabout,
Not mere sweat and blood soaked up in my formation,
Its the repulsive reek of unreasonably notched up pride,
that emanates from me, endlessly.
Multitudes connected with me their bloated vanity ,
with noses held higher than the infinite sky,
and then there came the wage laborers,
who erected me with their ceaseless toil.
But the jovial spring has come and long-gone,
and days of glory reduced to a mass of ruin,
And I, ironically, lie propped up in a changing world,
unchanged, unwatched, deserted, withered.
And the despicably bitter autumn sky,
With its cold winds and spells of rusting rain,
Out to corrode me, rape me, inside out.
And I, with my ironical existence, stand and grieve.
My innards yearning for life and company,
and my outsides in the harsh outdoors,
though weak like the bonds of urban lovers,
still do dream of occupation and cover.
But why-o-why do I care to lament,
My song's unheard, my presence overlooked,
In spite of my towering stature and built,
I am merely, a hollow shell without a pearl.
Standing, stagnating, smelling of rust,
My organs, my limbs, all covered in dust,
But I, with my self-mocking farce of grandeur,
Continue to be a prop, a forlorn relic of days better off.
While the world has moved on in stride with time,
I, with the burden of a heavy heart, stay rooted,
With my life condensed to a mere message,
Its better to change with a flaw, than to stagnate with perfection.
-B.M
