Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Hieroglyph 3

What can be said of the lives we have wasted here
The blood and breath that we have chained to the rock
The thoughts we have let perish on the dark sword of our days.

An ominous eternity lurks over the sand
While the bleak game continues over the final catastrophe of time.
We are the death here
And the mindless avenging hand.

A pause in the labyrinth is all that remains of our love
A moment stolen from confusion
A ripple in the endless darkness
A cold and tattered instinct for our home.

Among the statues that we plant like wheat
And the grim nameless stones scattered in our unholy fields
What disembodied voices still scream in our winds
What endless dreams of theirs still violate our sleep.