"Forecast: Unseasonably cold."

You, you are the gargoyle engraved
six feet into the Cathedral's skin;
fixed, overlooking the scenery of Monroe park.
Fools are rushin' rushin' around;
the weather weathers them down,
you sit silent and watch.

Their umbrellas dance to the sound of raindrops dying.

A midday sun escapes from its cloudy cage
and every shadow holds its breath.
Petals bow and a stalks sway;
the wind knows no death.

Ancient trees wrestle the sky
as hardened humans heave heavy souls;
too enslaved to chisel down their lives
they fight over fool's gold.

Their umbrellas die to the sight of raindrops hiding.
Still, you are not Sunnyside up:

If only they would rotate their free wills well
and dispatch into life, leading.
If only you could escape that stifling shell
and hatch into a heavenly being.

But indulgence is a discontinued sale; they never will, you never will.

You, the monstrous yet marvelous, grudgingly gaze
as their eyes, now swallowed by sunshades,
skim over the beauty of this scripted day,
ignore the position of each actor onstage
and forget that life is but a play inside the Playwright's Play.

Even so, you know the sparrow
will sing its redemption song
as bones descend at dusk.
Spirits will ascend at dawn
as humans keep building up.

Their buildings may fall
as the earth absorbs it all.
Yet your building will fall
as the earth absorbs it all.