I watch the posters bleed. A warning of their shared fate with the stone. Canaries painted up with the brightest feathers. Monuments like gleaming limestone pyramids.
But we won't remember the feathers as bright.
We'll remember the colors bled out, when they're bled out. The paint on our pantheon will wash to white marble. And they'll re-remember it as white marble. They'll re-remember the lustrous white limestone as dirt and sand, when its dirt and sand. Our history will be rewritten, as its remembered.
I haven't posted much, so I decided to put this up before I edited it all into rhyme. This is a small excerpt of a larger thread of thought I plan on continuing to write about.