I found him on a lonely Saturday— 
A tragic angel sculpted — and I felt
His brooding mood, arrayed in such a way 
He shrank within, and downward, as he knelt.

Combining more than craftsmanship and art,
He was a shrine to vulnerability,
A bronzed reminder of the brittle heart,
This paralyzed immortal on one knee.

His wings were tucked, as if he’d been ashamed 
Of doubting a decision by his Master— 
Or possibly despondent as he blamed 
Some godless monster for a world disaster.

Or was he Lucifer, before he fell,
About to pay the penance for his war,
Receiving judgment — and a throne in Hell—
To reign in ash and flames forevermore? 

With patron verve, I wondered if his eyes
Were set obscurely, wet with tears, or closed—
And if, defiantly, he’d somehow rise
Above the place he was forever posed—

But no! — he hadn’t moved, and never would.
His form was fated by the artist’s hands—
Perhaps in prayer, because he understood,
Or burdened by the freight of God’s demands.