Gargoyle With No Chance.

Sat atop the church spires,
His gruesome face downcast,
Drenched by pouring rainfall,
Watching it fall fast.

His metal hands were motionless,
Cold and twisted claws,
His mouth stuck in a howling 'O',
In between two roars.

Around him brothers and sisters,
Cried torments of their own,
Yet never had this gargoyle,
Felt so very alone.

The rain fell down in straight sheets,
He watched with silent tears,
Feeling every drop of water,
Like an army if little spears.

The gargoyle had a hidden depth,
He hated being a scare,
And yet he could not help it,
He wasn't going anywhere.

His brethren continued to taunt him,
With silent, goading looks,
Pointing with their narrowed eyes,
Their fists turned into hooks.

True beauty lay beneath his face,
And yet no one could see,
Past his harsh exterior,
That he wasn't just empty.

A gargoyle with a moral ground,
Breaking boundaries bit by bit,
Having to face that every day-
Nothing would come of it.