The frivolous colors swirl incandescence,
Hesitant to the shadows; they never yield to their darkness.
The smells waft, and tempt the creatures mourning,
And the sorrowful white sky shudders in their remorseful presence.
The crisp, cool smell soothes the nerves of the distraught creatures,
Although, the fresh rain is that of a relentless kind, and never stops falling on the dreary shadows longing for the grace of light.
For they are the souls, in which no one stops to care enough,
They are the souls, in which nothing stops to pick them up.
Her eyes sting as the dawn crawls tiredly over the mountains for which she has been born,
The shadows are smothered with light; and die silently with no tears falling in the stony aftermath.
Gnarled limbs are sneered upon, and the frame of the elderly quivers with self loathing in an act of self preservation.
The fuse of the hate is blazing, lighting up the souls of hollow beings; for they cannot think past what they see.
The great eagle is failing in its two century old flight,
And the sky darkens with the soot of infinite burning hearts.
The eye is blind to what it does not wish to see, and the puppeteer pulls the strings.
For masks cover the contorted hate and power until they know not right from wrong.
Dawn comes in cracked waves as we wait in sorrow for a day that we will never know.
For, until the veil is lifted, upon the sunken eye;
The meadow lark will cease his song, and the golden days will die.
