The Sentinel

The sentinel stood as he always had, tall and watchful and white. But somehow now the gloss had fallen, his once-proud wings no longer glinting in the sun. The furrowed brow and sorrowed eyes cast over his battlefield, ever-vigilant, but pride now waning.

He had been the lauded one, the saviour boy, the golden angel breathing life. The rapture, the joy! - oh how he remembered! And then bitterly, from atop his pedestal, had he endured the turning of the crows. The taunts, the vile words, where once he had heard only lovesongs.

But still, and more, he endures stock-still, ever-rendering services required, fulfilling canon, exceeding grades. And thankless yet his back stands tall, while his worshippers flock to his adversaries, declaring him wanting and unwanted.

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