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Like fingers they claw at the sky, |
|
pylons of a pompous foray. |
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Sentinels to look down upon with vacant eyes. |
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We kindle our willing to strive, |
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to remain separate. |
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A farewell to the spoils of fate, |
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in shallow graves. |
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We dig a hole deep in the earth, |
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dig it deep to hide all our guilt. |
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A trio of sarcophagi - triadic deceit. |
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the quagmire could swallow whole, |
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the black well of our malady, |
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we grasp tight of offered hands, |
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to stem the flow of defeat. |
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We pick the bones cleans of their worth, |
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whisper [sweet] nothings into empty warrens, |
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mock prayers to revel within, |
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who has seen better days? |
|
Zealots practice silent vigils, |
|
we turn out attention upon their axis, |
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imitations inured with former glory, |
|
we ignore their remorse. |
