He stands with his head bent down,

An unbroken facade of polished onyx.

Eyes downcast for hundreds of years,

They don't look, nor even stare blankly.

Around his neck hangs his chains,

His arms draped with his manacles.

A false wealth selling fake flatteries,

Freedom can't be bought by selling a lie,

Not that there's such a thing as a truth you could sell,

An imitation living is still imprisonment.

And in his stance he knows it too.