They stand still, our bodies,
dumb-struck, dust-skin in dust,
wear the mask of our death
the present moment or the next,
eyes lost in never ending dream
without light to see a single glimpse.
their shooting-birds fingers
don't swap the insects, pricking them;
the clumping feet are chained in immortality.
lips lie in wait for words
that were their own, good or bad,
and ears hear the groaning of the Soul,
bearing the brunt of their deeds.
and groan