Hear the sabre voices clash between children,
Watch the birth, the creation of dread,
Look closely at the glow about the fire,
Lost is the miracle of wonder,
It lies elsewhere.
Turn the log, it's warmth lies hidden,
Walk with care, beneath you lay the dead,
Souls that now form the silent choir,
Lie still and cause the mind to stir,
To imaginings in the air.
Living voices drift, the wind is calmed,
And the music dies away,
But the quiet, the silent is never harmed,
And lives again in every new day.
The rope that tightens around your neck in pain,
Will cause a grin as life is denied once again.
Copyright © David Wakeling | Year Posted 2018