Over the Edge
These men whose empty eyes are bright
As vacant windows set in stone;
Sift through the echoes of black night
When fog and wind speak silence alone.
On forsaken paths and in empty halls
One can see them deformed and hollow;
Like wild shapes that climb prison walls
They hold the vision they could not follow.
Open the door softly, the faceless form
Weaves strands of life into a dream;
When the sun shines through his storm
Little men journey through what had been.
An old bent man whispers to the door
With the smell of death from the grave;
To lift the silence and hear the roar
Of voices of those they could not save.
Copyright © Elizabeth Wesley | Year Posted 2011
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