Renaissance

There are some in this world who long to be gargoyles

grotesques and Gorgons with rough, jagged claws

hides thick and tough as stone

silently soaring through dark clouds

until leathery drums of wings and triumphant shrieks

announce that it is too late to run

If kept for too long

our hearts begin to bleed

It leaks out our eyes and onto a page 

a canvas, a notebook, a fabric, a frame

all covered in drool from the ulcer of our souls

hacked up and spit out

the messy birth of doppelganger art

creations that make our skin shiver with gooseflesh

And we tremble with adoration and anguish

relinquishing corporeal thoughts wrecked with emotion

manifestations of our throbbing, vulnerable minds

expectantly--but sick with shame and worry

We make monstrous paintings, sculptures, plays, books

Embedded with teeth from melancholy grins

and flock to libraries, churches, museums

Because we are the guardians

and no one knows more of keeping beauty shut within

than one who longs to be a gargoyle.