And so,
We reach towards the stars,
Our unspoken dreams lingering in the stale air,
Our worries locked away in a wooden box hid beneath the squelching soil.

We will not speak of those we left behind,
Or of the grit we scrub away each evening,
We will not try to remember the pain we’d caused and the lies we’d sold.

We will not speak of the Night of Slumber
Or of those that rot beneath our feet.

We will not speak of her,
Oh crimson moon,
Her body enshrined in fuel the color of her hair.

We will not speak,
For if we do,
We’ll meet her soon,
And our guilty souls will be laid bare.