headstones are the ruins of life

we all end in ruins,

our glory, our life,

fades in dust or a weathered tombstone,

no matter, no change

no idea or care for the time spent,

only the living will remember

but what do they,

we,

remember?

can you see someone's favorite sweater

from a concrete slab?

can you hear the way you laugh

from the stone walls of your mauseleoum 

does your headstone, 

grey and cold,

reflect the feeling you kept on that summer night,

that winter day,

where you swore the tides would turn?

where you vowed to be eternal?

On a trip to rome you'd see the colosseum,

its bones, it's structure 

its concrete reminisce,

but you'll never see the crowded people

hear the heartbeat of a gladiator stop,

see the gold of the lion,

or hear it's exclaim,

All you will,

forevermore hear,

is the whispers of glory

but never see its face.

you might go to Germany 

see a stone castle, 

vines thriving up the sides

stone

breaking

tumbing

crashing 

into the water underneath,

you will never hear 

the whistful dreams of a princess trapped inside,

never the clank of armour as it patrols,

you will never know,

how the face inside recoiled at the sight of blood,

or how the woman in the shell of a princess hates the entrapment of her skin.

we will never know

what the walls do.

your hair will disintigrate,

your gums infest with maggots,

your callouses will no longer be useful

and your blood will be drained

but even if you fight

like the lion,

tooth and nail,

like the knight,

with everything you have,

those will soon be gone, too.