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the brown and orange sky holds its breath |
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as the sun retreats to the distant horizon, |
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and our hearts palpitate anxiously as we soon will lay supine, |
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and wait for sleep to overcome us |
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and from somewhere in our black, |
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subconscious minds when we're asleep, |
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comes a haunting swelling mass of voices, |
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resonating, its screams of forgotten victims and the cries of innocence, |
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and the desperate plea for recognition and recompense |
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tiny voices, echoes of our heritage, |
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our long and sallow faces turn the other way, |
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tiny voices, harbored deep within |
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as we outwardly deny that they have something to say, |
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and if we don't confront them they will never go away |
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the billions of tiny pinhole embers fade into a morning sky |
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filled with poignant morose wonder, |
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waking, we bear a cosmetic peace that verifies the turmoil |
|
which we carry deep inside |
