Everyday, we meet
In the same smog of a city’s ignorance.
My right hand stays
Raised - in farewell or salute?

I feel not a little ridiculous
A man of flesh and blood
Poured into a concrete
Shell and painted gold

Stuck in the middle of
A thoroughfare and
Given my own road,
Roundabout and
Peeing spots for dogs and men.

I turned a 100 recently
In potential earthly years
And so, I got a spa treatment
Of poems and posies
From my undead enemies

Everyone had a fable
To share about my
Supposedly wonderful life.

While, I, the scriptwriter
Of many a horror tale,
Continued to play mute witness
To my never-ending death

As I waited to meet you again
In the same smog of a city’s ignorance.