Limbs knocked off in transit.

I have here, standing in my memory, statues vaunting upon great gleaming podiums. They stand tall in their poses. Immortalized figures cast from pure marble slabs of sweeping whiteness. They are the product of old histories turned to ancient mythology, their stories coalescing into one single stance and one unmoving expression. A stock for those ghosts is for each the selected theme from a brimming array of activities and faces, things organic now not living. I have a collection of all the faces that I know. And those that I have not seen for too long have turned to myths, sculptures curving upwards but caught. Now their shoulders carry stillness, now their clothing resists the winds. With these I hear no voices from their bending mouths and in a met gaze I feel no pulsing thoughts. However bright the beings stay as they gather themselves away from ages, I miss that motion, the dance between tides before things washed away.