They are both withered and grey.
Still, they wait.
The rooms here, and there, are silent and the halls are barren.
The paint on the fence has faded and all but chipped away.  
The moons have passed and so have many faces.
With each waning phase their bodies have weakened.
But something grows, so slow and steady it's hard to notice.
Still, they wait.
They have died.
In stillness, they wait.