Two stone angels stand, not quite together, not quite apart,
eternal vigilance carved by someone long gone now,
Stone features eroding into their faces,
one smiling,
the other crying,
tears made real by the winter rain,
staring back as though they care.
And here I stand, I don't know why I'm here,
waiting on this long forgotten hill
for someone who will never come.
For someone who doesn't exist...
Someone who cares.
The angels might care.
But I won't ask them.
Its not my right to do so.
Not that they wouldn't answer.
I know they would.
I see it in their eyes.
Their eyes, you see are not of stone.
Their eyes are made of Fire and Water,
Earth and Air.
Their bodies were made by something human,
But their eyes are above that.
No, not above exactly, in the sense that they are no better than humans...
Not above. Beyond.
Their voices are now unheard, but they were heard once.
No longer do they sing, no longer do they speak.
Guarding a path to nowhere, on a grassy hill in the winter rain.
I look once more into their elemental eyes...

I was wrong. The angels do not care.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is weird, a) because it was like a dream/vision thing, and b) because it was more of prose than poetry...but it flows, so that's how I've classified it...