Constant battles on the inside
a weathered structure to hold it together
constant visitors gawk and stare
seeming to known and remember
the pain etched on the boards and rock
They pretend to understand and fantasize
of the glory of battle
instead of the loss of humanity
the torture and torment
twisted bones and gushing wounds
This pain they won’t feel
It’s not to be fixed.
It is art, It is history.
It is condemned to death.