Dead men speak to us through the veil of unending tears. They look upon us and judge our works, finding them wanting. They judge us as we are, while they become eternity.

The dead remain perfected. Their faults fade and winnow to naught.
We the living remain. A gearbox movement of failings and fault. We churn life before and after us, leaving only tears in our wake.
The dead know nothing of this. The dead but remain. A granite testament to their perfection. Rub your beak upon them, and epochs pass before the first mark is scored.
We the living are but chaos towards failure. Dynamic blossomings of pain and tears. Hurt upon hurt until life becomes an afterthought. A phantom against grey. Life fades into the least of us. Fades until only a trail of blood casts a pale light in the coming gloom.
But the dead – that once knew this – mock our feeble fumblings. The dead look upon us as were we children falling and falling. And falling.
To us, they are as gods. Upon their throne of granite, upon the shores of time they sit and stare. Ashamed and astounded, they watch us flail.
But no hand reaches down to lift us, no gentle gaze and winsome smile. Our fathers all dead, and their hands grown to dust and blown away.
Against the throne of granite.

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