The empty plain around Stonehenge
Sits as a bare graveyard.
We learn of Stonehenge in the lengthy texts
As we force boiling coffee down our tired mouths.

What about those who walked those fields?

That thought lead me down a bleaker path,
What about the builders?
What about the man who birthed the concept of Stonehenge?
He is forgotten.
His name isn’t known, it isn’t etched into the stitches of history
As a Ghandi, or a Da Vinci.
He is like that neighbor I always forget I have,
He is the Mailman that delivers the good and bad news,
The one who’s name I never caught.

It’s the owl’s domain now,
The deep night,
I ponder, sleepless, forced to keep pondering
Will I build something great, and be forgotten?
All of the builders of Egyptian pyramids,
Their creation stands thousands of years later.
But they are gone, lost forever…

But their creation draws wonder!
They inspire,
Just as the mailman has with his daily friendly grin.
And even as the grin physically fades behind the scenes,
It stands tall and alive in my memory,
The dead grin, the dead builders,
What is dead may never die,
It lives in my mind.
Just as a lost love’s laugh lives so vividly in my head,
It lives forever.

How I behave, how I react,
Is based off of the little things,
A simple smile or simple sign of joy
Push me forward, make me a complete being.
They build my Stonehenge, my Great Pyramid.

And when I’m gone,
The fields around me well traveled,
Each footstep that lead to my resting place,
That was the path we all traveled together.
I am gone, but I live through what I built,
Whatever remains on the Earth, Sea, and Sky,
What is Dead may never Die.

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