Chained to a heart, that weighs of gold,
Worn, crumbling pillars, that I hold.
My tired grip, has left to fail,
Through hollowed halls, and stones so frail.
Your words are simple, tools of bronze,
How could they, loose these granite bonds?
A silken shawl, round hammer’s head,
Softens the blow, but not the dread.
You called to question, my heart's grace,
As I turned, walking my, dead race.
"What, not even a last goodbye?"
....
Saying goodbye would make me cry.