The stony red fish swim the orange sand, fins aligned in tight schools, some jumping in stony arches, preserved in slow, hard medium. Goblins watch over them in mum cracked smiles as they huddle, timeless.
These aren't tired stones; they dance if given chance, in the orange cathedrals, late until the sun bids them stop.
I like your metaphor(s) better than "Courthouse Towers." Much more inviting and alive.