Necropolis

What can be imprinted on the back of eyelids?
The rise of civilisations?
The fall of empires?

Or nothing of such interest?
Nothing that will be written about, nothing forged from grandeur.

The manifestation of normality within an epic,
no thought of odyssey or pilgrimage.

To stare into the reflection of these eyes, is to glare at a time that does not exist.

There are no gods here anymore,
just ashes upon dust upon dirt.

Life used to be absorbed through these dulled irises,
an unknown existence like yours or mine.

No tombs to preserve, just the wind to carry their stories,
in the very same way that it carries the sand over dunes.

The gods did not build the pyramids,
it was you and I,
them and us.