From the mouths of gargoyles

From the mouths of gargoyles

As she curls her tongue around an emptying darkness

Falling rain runs like rivers from those mouths above

Those gargoyles perched on old weathered rooftops

To drench her as she sits waiting on a low wall beneath one

Her limp hair covers all but thin slithers to a single eye’s sight

Except when a gust of wind blasts her hair back horizontal

To reveal both eyes watching her hands hold a not quite

A not quite empty glass bottle of some age and imperfect colour

It’s contents, a rolled, scroll, perhaps a print or a faded photograph

Visibly cracked though still entirely in tact, it seems to stare back

Several lightening bolts strike upon a field some distance in front

As a broken tile slips, crashes, tumbling down through, rushing

From the gargoyles mouth, smashing, slamming into her skull

Blood streams down the side of her face as she shakes off the impact

Still the bottle rests in her hands, she leans back washing her face

To then remove the cork from the bottle for only a second since

It’s been in her possession, to reveal a monochromatic photograph

A young woman, and turning it over, on the back these words

“Help me. Help me. I am here.” With an address revealing this

A weather torn location, some 155 years, many years too late

To be sitting now in front to an aging monolith of a blackened ruin

Where still rants, rages a tempest in remembrance to foul play and life taken

So from the mouths of gargoyles, runneth today one more tale to mark history

As her tears fall upon to run down through each crack in the wet fading photograph.