Another crowd.

Another crowd.

On the terrace, exposed,
spectator stones watch and wait.
Scarred and crumbled, leaning tired or tumbled,
they observe today with yesterday’s eyes.
Mini monoliths, huddled and spread,
silently decaying
like the sleepers
they once heralded,
are in return, watched.

Today’s eyes scan yesterday’s epitaphs.
Inscribed words blur and chaff
as time, with relentless fingers,
scours and secretes.
Deeds and praises
ghosted remnants of proud proclamations
return to their dust.
But eyes still scrutinise and search,
enjoy the game,
guess the endings.

Watcher is watched
by those whose heart
is not of stone.