The sand beneath wears an agonizing brown.
An occult silent oblivion is all that is around.
Pieces of the living dead are buried underground.
A few slaughtered.
A few cheated.
A few lost, waiting to be found.
There is a wicked wind that blows.
There's an ashen silence that roars.
There are graves that yell and disclose.
The stories of its pain.
A ruthless calm.
An unruffled chaos.
As passes the mourning moony bluebird.
Uncover a little of the earth.
Witness the hints of the gone on their berth.
The blares of the buried.
The breaths of the bloodless.
A miraculous rebirth.
Discover the legs that wanted to dance.
Discover the fingers in search of a pen.
Discover the lips that dreamed to sing.
Discover the dreams that were slayed.
Over, and over, and over again.
Discover the bat never held.
The lens that never saw the sea.
The mic denied to make them laugh.
And the dreams that were buried.
Every single time, they tried to be.
The sand beneath wears an agonizing brown.
An occult silent oblivion is all that is around.
Screams for help mumble from underground.
A few dreams.
A little life.
A dead poetry, waiting to be found.
-Listless Awake
