Cold Metal Bust

Some body stands in the stairwell.
Another strides the expensive ground. It's late.
A bust of a great man propped up where
none stroll or get lost looks on... blankly, cold.

'A pilot, you think?'
'What else.'
Visitors ooh and aah over
the war stories and
fantastic thoughts regain conciousness.
Regret's on all fours.
But I wonder what he would say
if one stopped and
committed more than a self-
righteous blank cold stare?
'Don't worship my half-lived life.'