David looks different
under a hazy pink sky,
at least to my wearied eye,
anyways.
Once he loomed tall
and imposing, every inch
the chiseled adonis,
cold marble, a burning gaze
that would see the world in flames,
unafraid of his home
turning to cinders in the blaze.
But now the cracks appear...
or maybe they were always here
and only now are clear,
in any case -
the once-boy seems tired.
World-worn, lost in thought,
forlorn,
back bent, nigh-broken,
brow heavy with the weight
of sorrows unknown,
yet all too close to home.
Perhaps wishing that night
might finally fall
on Florence.