Why must glass imagined by the wayward few

draw borders over lives bleeding out

to fill in the scratch marks, the minor key

the quiet ones whose whispers fill the sepulcher

dead to the ears that listen to the world?

None left to spell out salvation

none caught on the hooks cast down from the sky

only whispers against a sacred storm

reaching out for the last to come

the withering on edges burned by the blackness

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Most beautiful is the image graven by stars, upon which entry to this trail is given way to secret things…

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Photo by Tomasz Filipek from Pexels