A corpulent Michelangelo,

Sprawled on a stone box,

Dusty throne lined up

Along the boardwalk walkway

One among many, lost in a sea of thrones,

Each waiting for its Michelangelo,

Become their last known stone edifice.


The sculpture moves, just a bit

Faint shudder, movement, a hiss

Expels unnatural sounds ,

Drool dripping, gliding along a rough stone skin,

Hanging deliberately, then flying through a silence,

Broken by the tap tap sound as it meets the ground,

Silence broken for a micro send on touch,

Then regains itself back,

Leaving a formless puddle below.


A black painted canvas his stage,

Flutters and moves around him,

Slowly at first, then gathers increasing resistance and violence in its folds;

Forced into action by the collision

Of earth meeting the sky in a distant horizon,

Unleashing electric power,

As each battles for supremacy,

In this constant war.


Onlookers and gawkers, once smirking and poking the seemingly dead stone,

Lying prostate in his display stand;

Now run away, leaving mystery marks,

Footsteps that vanish and wash away,

Like a drunk’s memory,

Starts all over again in a new morning.


Michelangelo, unfazed by it all

Dead to himself

and to the world around him,

Continues to be the display,

In a rotten, storm strewn boulevard.

Strewn bottles, smoke pipes and tobacco,

His friends from times just past.


He, is nothing but a leftover, a caricature,

Of something never achieved,

A dream in his own mind,

A greatness – now immortalized,

On a windy black canvas,

As a fleeting memory of despair,

Broken sculptures and strewn bottles,

And pipes in a deserted boulevard.

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