AristotleHeed not the statues lining the hall
Ignore their entreaties, go on.
The smiles of a stone can flicker by fire
The beauty of bronze will soon fade

The pedestals, crafted by years of long work,
Just distraction. A fool’s wasted day.
The heroes of yore reduced to a mound
All stones can be sand given time

How odd that the elements, though not as out here
Can effect those statues within
The pantheon crafted by the work of one’s mind
Can be fleeting, can be blunted by age.