There’s nothing left to say, it’s all been said.
It’s time I lined my hands up with the dead,
Whose eyes can’t see the misery they cause.
They understand their own pain, never yours.
And there we’ll sit in solitude. Unfound.
Without a hint of warmth, without a sound,
Until the day the author wanders in
And then the solemn dancing will begin.
Around, around we’ll weave our sorry tale
Of bleak regret. Of how we came to fail.
Our efforts gouging pieces from our lives
As though they were the frozen ghosts of knives.
The dead will cease their dance, will lose the fight.
But I will dance until I find the light.
ogginblog 