I'm a labyrinth of silence, a city of stone, Where stories lie buried, and secrets are sown. I house a population, yet breathe no air, And offer a final, dark, ornate repair.

It starts with a whisper, then grows to a roar, Breaking down peace with a thirst to explore. Men march for glory, but what is it for?

Many hands can hold me, my purpose can change; Punishment, pleasure, oppression, or pain. Coiled like a snake, ready to snap; Spread out my fingers like the tails of a cat.

I hold no breath, yet whisper tales, Of kings and beggars, time prevails. I stand in rows, yet do not speak, A silent choir, the strong and weak. I mark the end, yet memories grow, Beneath my watch, both friend and foe.

I am related to mt. rushmore, but I am not rocky. People often fill jars with me.