The stains they leave,
marked in their manners,
cursed their own accord.
They forgot to palm their psalms in their hands,
and the sound of their misery-
completed a course to the wishing well.

If the heart of it were elastic,
Would the pressure begin to stretch
Every ounce of the fabrics that are eagerly discontent?
Tears have been poured, stricken by chords,
a cadence harmoniously invigorated

Only silence fills these halls,
with walls covered and doused in red.
Do you see them when they walk out,
those waltzing hundred dead?

In the pitch of the night, blanket in the umbra, a voice to touch our ears, “Please stay with me tonight.”