On display, for all the world to see.
Scribed in blood upon the stretched flesh
of the oppressed. Freely given,
though seldom recognized.
Children flock to see me in bright yellow busses.
Foreigners muse over me as a novel concept,
with noses held high. Enemies gnaw at me from
within, like plague-ridden rats.
Still, I remain.
Battered, yet unbroken.
Perfect? Not even close.
Timeless? No, but living.
Slowly dying of neglect.
Watching the blood of innocents flood our streets
as I wait patiently for a transfusion.
A firm hand, the quill awaits.