A war between copper and tin
Shredding a statue of bronze
And leaving it wonderin’
If it is the sum or if it is the parts
Or if it is a being of a different skin.

It is frozen in place,
In the corner of a garden,
Its eyes fixed on a sacred base
And the angel of gold stood on its face

With every hand placed on her skin
The molecules of his within
Break apart, not how they’ve been,
Until he fears that he will melt
To a puddle, when it’s felt
Will leave a burning and a welt
On all who notice where he dwelt.

He pleads the sculptor of his life
To keep his shape set through his strife
And turn him from his golden queen
Or lift her eyes to be his wife