old friends whose words once mattered none
now speak with dark, with heavy tongues
now speak which once made angels run
now speak to make the demons come
and tell their tales when dead men don't
and whisper fears that horrors own
now silent, umber, as it shone,
and paradox to bring you home
now listen, quiet, awe and fear
oh -- demons, that they've summoned near
within, without, no doubt, all clear
old friends who speak, though never here
and friends who wake the dead - to speak -
to speak of angels, to fear the weak
to face the things they could not seek
and finding more than they can keep
and finding that which none could know
would bring less cheer, would bring more woe
to try again, to stop, to go
to finder' keeper's, to tell and show
old friends, whose bodies rotted since
the time that they'd seek recompense,
rise once again, sit on the fence
and in the sanctuary convinced
tell tales of places far, yet near
of horrors, nightmares, monsters dear
They scare and yet do cry in fear,
Old friends who speak, though never here.
I don't know what this is but I wrote it without stopping so