Is this the end of the story? All of a sudden our words became silence.
As if nothing has recent has been real, easing a life shrouded in violence.
Wandering around under the grey skies, until it is time to rest.
There’s no finding anything around the remains of the past.
But talking to one’s self helps these thoughts move on for a while.
How can we have nothing to show the world after so many years?
There is no great war that will take us away anymore,
And we fought to be taken care of in this state, waiting,
To be carried off, in the distance of a better time, that never existed.
A fantasy, that is shared by everyone else, but who won’t be tempted.
For a better time, in our lives, times have past.
It’s too far for us to remember the realization of a simple prayer.
When our hardship meant we were living with ourselves in check.
A tradition, evolving to thrive as a people depended on everything.
Can you remember a stronger person standing before you, waiting to move out?
But there is no one sitting at home, waiting for their grandchildren to return.
The fires are out in the cold winter days, like no one has been around in years.
As the wind blows, and seeps into the cracks to chill this empty home,
The ground is ghostly, not from the past....
No one can explain, and you know everyone has to deny their roots just to survive,
Maybe this shell of a hollow person doesn’t want the future to remember how it stays alive.
A family, back home. But this home never let the dawn in, a regret too far gone to change,
Now they live in the dark, belonging to something else
hooked on the sounds so deafening it hurts to stand next to them.
Belonging to those watching and waiting for you to fall asleep.
Listening for the silence of the breath that gave life to our stories.
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