David

In old Firenze, I looked upon
David.
His marble form forever frozen; perfection
embodied in the strokes of a chisel wielded in the hands of a master.

Walking within the walls of the Accademia di Belle Arti Firenze,
one cannot help but be awed by the resplendent anxiety of
flawless humanity.


Silence.
Except for the hushed yells of security guards molesting
camera-wielding tourists.
Or the prattle of field-tripping school-children.
Or the dim buzz of mind-flies, perpetually obscuring the
silence.


The statue gazes through the wall, flaunting the nakedness of his birth
which resounds from wall to wall to wall to wall—
—a deafening roar, perhaps only to me, who has ears to hear.
Michelangelo and seraphim must have wept inwardly when he conceived
David.

And there the monolith still stands, sling in unblemished hand,
contemplating the conquering of a giant and his invading army.
His famous feat not yet blotted out by the failures of his future.
His ivory skin not yet marred by his repentance in sackcloth and ash.
He is a pinnacle of potential, preaching thunderously to mankind what
we may become.

Who wordlessly reminds me that I may never be such an one as
David.