To an old wooden statuette (In Progress)

Polished, brown, obediently erect,
At peace with the livery of your day,
Through ever-changing seasons, you have slept,
While every passing season had its way.

Each hurricane, each wave of potent heat,
They shattered every shield and went straight through;
And in your slumber - blissful, ignorant, sweet - 
Shaped every aspect they could find, of you.

Through each attack you obliviously bore,
The oak whose wood made you, it lay in wait.
Through years of agony, it watched you for
Some sign of change in your somnolent state.

When no hint came, that oak, that mighty tree,
It unflaggingly, firmly rooted stood.
It doubted not, despite the agony
Its ever-living, ever-growing wood.

What made you so content with ignorance?
Your craftsman? Who, for all that he was worth,
Could not fathom your sheer brilliance
And put you on a pedestal at birth.

All of your existence has been unfurled
There! On that pedestal - your throne, your seat!
That pedestal's become your very world - 
A world that ends just inches from your feet.

You thought you had a will that was your own,
An upright arrogance that none could touch.
But though, upon your plinth, you stood alone,
The plinth, it morphed, it twisted and, as such,

Conceded its position, compromised
To fit each whim of each well-meaning knave.
Imbecile! Have you never despised
That every passing hand made you its slave?