My Muse

 I stand beneath your stone statue, 

Staring at a distant dream, 

I feel like I have belonged here, 

Since eternity or so it seems.

People call you History, 

The perfect hero of the past.

You to them is a warrior, 

Perhaps a king, fighting for freedom. 

You to me is a Heart, 

That battles against the brain, 

Stands alone against the odds of every pain.

You come across as perhaps a rebel child. 

To me, you fought for your belief. 

To them, you were about the war, 

To me, you are her Love.

All they see is a statue or two, 

Your values and soul forgotten. 

They remember you for two days a year, 

While the rest seem unimportant.

© Suranya