The Eyes That Never Close

What does a voice say when it has brushed eternity? What words suffice to sum it up? Composed they sit...Silent. Resolved, they act out their narrative in the weathering blue stone that ages even the innocent. Wizened beyond their childlike forms, they weep with the rain and whistle with the wind. They who see, but do not speak. The watchers of the world.

The Caesars, the babes, the dauntless, the depraved... They watch from their towers and shadow our graves. Images asked to remember for civilizations that fade in an instant like footprints in waves. The stone remembers... Stays true to its shape.

I wonder, if people were like stone... Unshakeable, unbending, steady, and timeless. Would we be better? Or even more mindless? Does softness, and mortality make us think about choices? Consequence motivate the use of our voices? Maybe it's better the stone watches on, to tell them the story long after we're gone. It frees up our time to live like we mean it, to discover the beloved, the fearsome, and sacred.