We march in a straight line.
Sleep inhibited by pounding
footfalls and cloudy breaths.
Stone beats on cold flesh
which beats on our hearts
as we beat beat beat away our troubles
to a drum thats lost its tune.
We sing songs that have no words.
We lie, about where we
have come from and where we are going.
We speak in circles until
we forget what we speak of,
what we speak of leaves our
tongues in smoke and ash
fallen from a sky lined
with something different than
the khol that lines eyes that reflect midnight
instead of starlight.

The drum has lost its beat.
We fall apart and the
north star that used to pull us
forward, onward, fades.
Our faces paler in the dawn light
reaching an oak tree we drop.
Return to our headstones
Earth, blood, bones become one again.
We are night.