I am a fruit, often pickled and green, Or cured to a dark, oily sheen. From ancient groves, my bitter taste I glean.

Part of face that bear the shine, And also an icon to glow it's prime.

I am born wet and expected to improve with age. My first mistake is often buried beneath my last success. Light reveals me, Time changes me, And varnish protects me. Though I may depict the world, I am made from neither words nor photographs. I am just one layer on top of another. What am I?

Raised to honor someone momentous, I stand where all may look and adore

Encased in bone both hard and white, I never glimpse the day or night. Yet all you say and all you do, begins with signals passing through.