The world is quiet, up here by the sky. The wind lingers, filling my nostrils with the smell of the mountain. The clouds wrap around me caging me in a thick white box. The cold misty air brushes over my bare skin sending shivers through me. The trees wave me to come closer and shade me from the whipping air. But I don’t go. The sudden gusts lift me off my feet and sway me back and forth like a feather in the breeze. The grass dances, brushing against its self, humming, singing. The stream slithers through the soft rocks crumpling as it brushes the earth. The rain starts to play as it runs through the field.  Then the dark falls on the mountain, and the moon blazes in the night, lighting up the stars. And the world is quiet, up here by the sky.

Fragmented survivors,
symbolize prisoners.
Clusters of death,
torture and slavery,
deeply tattooed in memory.
Victims confined,
Killed.
Images of Ignorance,
Ingrained in the bodies.
Forced to remember everything,
minuscule,
and  scarce.
Infamous existence
of imprisonment.

The wind carries my cries,
the rain pours down my tears,
but still you hear,
yet you dont seem to see.
All the hurt,
All the pain,
But I guess it was my fault,
for holding it in,
saying its fine,
then letting it out,
through my arms.
Watching it bleed.
Letting it flow.
but I wasn't crazy,
I just wanted you to see,
that there was hurt n' pian,
just too much for me.
Now you sing my lulaby,
as I sleep cold still,
and there will be no blood.
The wind will carry no cry.
The rain will pour down no tears,
cause you sang my lulaby,
that only the dead could hear.