Chronicles of the Lost.

Down this well worn path we tread.
Monstrous antiquities of stone, spying from ancient ruins that stretch endlessly into the horizon.
Silent sentinels that observe in stony disapproval, their grotesque grimaces scant encouragement to the tired traveller.

The weary seek solace in familiarity, that the path most trodden must be the best indeed.
They scry the path ahead, for signs the long departed have left, for portents of things to come.
Examining the notches in the sunken paving stones, deciphering their groans, envisaging ghostly manifestations of heroes long gone.

And these schemes they bedeck with great import, the ritual of their days, solemn and severe.
Eyes never wavering from the path ahead as they continue their endless scrutiny.

But my vision is not so privileged and all I see,
is an endless sea of grey and the bones in ghostly motion.
The bones who are the slaves and they weave your every scheme,
with every stride you take.