Those dead gods who lose their voice

in the echoes of unspeaking solitude—

every cacophony is a beacon to the weary

a hope for all who crawl across the land

searching for something to descend upon

in waves of grief bent against false promises

Screaming at the sun for setting

when all the world is moments from the dawn

And yet here in the honey glow of time

with walls around that rise and fall

the same as thoughts of a dying monarch

something is there for the subjects to know

some message on the forbidden wall

left in plain sight of a courtyard

where all who pass should avert their gaze

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Lament the fallen, and the few who chose not to live.

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Photo by Sergey Pesterev on Unsplash