the slender knife between his eyes
and the dripping crimson dew
flapping of the ravens feather
drenched in the sound of silence
as the thunder echoes what she cannot speak
his hands tied together
in prayer to the empty heavens
whom no one has set foot upon
his eyes open but his sight has been seen
and a secret to his grave-less burial he shall take
who did he see in this burnt paper town
and why did he die for its cause
and in his hand his paper blots
to the river of sewage beneath the street
to the heavy cries of the dark clouds
that bare no more a silver lining
where his paper bleeds not far different
from the man who is losing his ink.