I was walking on fine cotton,
Puffs and fluffs just barely withstanding,
Straining to keep me afloat,
On the pink clouds of golden Heavens.
Heavens like those painted in the Vatican,
During the Renaissance of Mankind’s Youth,
Resurfacing from deep caverns in the stormy nights.
I was the art of Michelangelo,
Sculpted from a block of marble,
Waiting to be released,
And He had waited,
For me to appear.
And when He saw my face,
He laughed as a Father would,
Welcoming their Newborn Daughter.
But then I aged with time,
The moss coating thickly on me...
And I became War,
And filled with quivering guns.
The conflicts were not enough to tumble,
Down to my cracking skin,
In submission to the rain seeping through,
The drops gliding to my bare feet.
I was simply a sculpture,
Frozen in a pose for the eyes of the beholder,
Now I am living,
Shifting position and crawling off my stand...
I am unstoppable,
I have learned to walk,
And now I am sprinting,
Deep within the Gardens of Unknowns,
To an Eden I can call my own.