The Statue


He rides a horse,
In the corner of the city’s park,
All worn out dark,
Still, shines with sparks,
For once,
He was a soldier in the armor,
The pride of the battalion,
A price charmer,
He sees the squirrels,
Squandering the dandelions,
He stares the boy on the wheel chair,
Amongst his companions,
He feels relieved that,
He is not alone hampered,
But then empathy trolls him,
In his mind, curbing him clambered,
He gains the rushing blood,
As youth runs for him,
In the marathon kludge,
Though this occurs rarely,
It gives him pleasure,
He feels so young,
Unwrapping his treasures,
Beneath the iron sheath,
He covers a century,
Full of clashes,
And a buried treasury,
He always wonders,
Who will own the four leaved clove,
Who will listen to his saga,
Find his wealth,
Hidden in the dark, beneath him,
Yet to shimmer its glow.
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