Markers worn by passing time,
Stand as sentinels in a garden of stones.
The names of those who are no more,
Once starkly chiseled,
Now vanishing as though carved in butter
Set to table on a summer’s hot day.
The ones who languish here beneath the stones
Are now forgotten by history and progeny
Like old paradigms.
That they once lived and who they were
Now sadly seems irrelevant to most,
Visited only by the few that concern themselves
With mundane things such as history
And old graveyards.

@2001