Some men blink,
some men die,
some men lie
awake at night
and scream their heads off,
cry, “why? no! why?”
to echo silence.
But still they scream and scream and scream,
and then their throats turn to rage.
Screams begin to turn pages
read, passed down from father to son,
from father to son, from father to son,
farther from the sun
at last.
And every night grown hopeless men
read chapters in dim
light, bleeding out below full moon sky