The Lone Sentry

A block of hard, cold stone
Inlaid with specks of greying grain,
Pretending not to notice its own
Pygmalion searching among the rugged terrain
As pale and sleeping snow lazily
Drifts among the autumn remains.

At last, the magical sculptor arrives,
A thick, curvy wand supported in a living hand,
Brushes off the flecks of ice to
See what lays beneath on the freezing land
And with precision starts a carving spell,
For precious time is in demand.

Cemented dust is chipped away,
Falls, crashes to the indifferent ground
And a pulsing ache beats alive
In the shaping of the rocky mound
As slivers of granite are severed off:
A masterpiece is to be found.

Spacious wings, spread wide with marbled bones,
Malevolent eyes frozen in an eternal glare,
Large and grotesque in its mangled features,
Curved claws swipe the frigid air;
A lone sentry, posed for Danger's moment,
Duty etched in its murderous stare.

Halfway in an empty corridor,
Lit by flickering, dancing flames
Does he stand, disguising his masters' chamber,
Created for protection and privacy just the same,
Only wishing to serve, silent even in springing life,
Battling against the trespassers' constant games.