It hangs upon the ancient Gothic church
and glares in angst below at passersby;
a fanged and wingéd stare atop its perch
as ever watchful as the starry sky.
The gutter water courses through its stone,
that rain that stutters down the orphan's cheeks
and seeps into the ground to parents' bones,
that turns a heart to stone and stone to beast.
The passersby declare it ugly still;
it torrents from above the starry sky
from wedding bells through final rites and will,
so how could it look well? They curse it; why?
Without its monstrous wings, inhuman teeth,
then who's to say that monster isn't me?