Arena

If the world was an arena 
There'd be a statue of you at the centre, 
Cracked and crumbling and standing.
You're reading something, perhaps a manual,
Struck by lightning from some god or other. 
Now the manual comes apart from your hands,
Falling, your look, still concentrated on 
Empty hands, hands you've known how to
Build with. Your brow is furrowed but there is
A beauty about you. There is a sign 
Of your youth somehow projected from within.
There are all these things and the sign
That there is a soul, wise and withstanding.
There is the past and unfinished. 
Then, there's me, laughing.