What it is...

Pinched face, stoic, stone.

Eyes with no intellect,

Not to mention sight but,

It is a tomb decoration.

He was never here and is not, here.

Spectral sojourner, lost, searching?

All that is left here is ashes, stone, 

Candy wrappers and mutilated paper cups.

To say I was here and,

I saw it, only the tomb, intimates,

I was late to a final encounter.

But, hey, I saw it, the tomb, at least, here in Paris.

It has to be protected, the tomb.

Those who care too much deface it.

Or maybe some of that might be derision, still.

Makes no difference now, he's never here.

Damn, the sun is bright.

The birds cannot be subdued,

Voices intrude to redirect reverie,

A plastic shield renders the design abrogated, tawdry, because,

As tribute to his contested gender, the sculpture offered testicles, a penis,

Here, on the statue.

In jest, admiration or meanness a tool ripped them off.

Silver metal replacements were made, perhaps to make a more lasting statement.

They've vanished as well,

Why no outcry Oscar?

What say ye about these lost symbols, nothing?

This proposed footnote, soaked in mirth and hope, delivers only silence.

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde