They stare at you with lifeless eyes,
smiles they bear, frozen in time
Their figures unable to mouth their fading cries
As if sharing their wars would be a crime.
Behind each mask is a different hell
cheery smiles all, or will know they run alone
And the dark circles around their eyes cannot tell
How far they all feel they are from
The shadows screaming in his head,
Or the fears creeping until her bed
feeling the young girl bears
Or the empty holes enamored in his stares.
The memory was just another in a thousand
Those who knew them claimed it as an delinquent juvenile
The scathed field blistered and burned by man’s hand
But on the pictures, they simply
Fallen angels whispering their blessings
The innocent tears of forgotten beings
They never grow, never are given a chance
Dreaming in their gloom, turning dust to gold
Unscathed in their spiritual trance**
In the absence of a heart the tears run down cold
Each echo of their life shattering in a million droplets
Each silently wailing for any creature’s help.
Exhaustion finally drives them into the drain’s roaring current
As every little parcel of their being drowns in the same torrent.
Their wails are then scattered by some wind’s gust
But in their mislead, intertwining hearts- lies the same thrust
That the sun will assure their rebirth to all
But the scars remain from their vertiginous fall
And the hope they lived on for days, gnawing on to diminish the pain
Is wasted. Cause no sun warms the content of a drain.
The wind blows across stiffened, burnt trees
Whistling for worlds to mend, across burnt cities
I have seen wind before. Have I listened to it though?
Have I truly, or is it just a lie that I sow..?
The fact I’m so good at lying, is quite a simple fact
My mind gaslights itself so that I believe I am right
But do you care for bristlings? Wind in the leaves,
Or is it just too little a thing for when the wind grieves
Do you feel the beating, or the riddled seas
Or even the gentle touching of the frostied breeze
Do you wonder what kind of dislocated cries it holds
Or the tempests, the maelstroms, the eruptions it has behold
Do you feel the taste of blood, the ashes in your mouth
The freezing, stark cold of a flood, or the spice of the South
The scent of death, slick and hollow; or the one of disease
But no. For you, wind is just a voiceless whisper in the leaves.
Listen to you heart