We have broken ourselves for less
Then the dreams of our forefathers,
Their bones still singing in the dust.
Fallen tombstones bring faithful children
To whisper lullabies to angry ghosts.
Our hands are capable of so much.
Love comes to those who leave their
Palms open to the futures that
Whisper just as memories do, and yet
The dead are not silent,
They twist and burn
In the mirror of our eyes.
Their struggle sings through us,
Asking if we too are already buried,
or perhaps, if we the living will
speak for those who cannot.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC
We have broken ourselves for less
Then the dreams of our forefathers,
Their bones still singing in the dust.
Fallen tombstones bring faithful children
To whisper lullabies to angry ghosts.
Our hands are capable of so much.
Love comes to those who leave their
Palms open to the futures that
Whisper just as memories do, and yet
The dead are not silent,
They twist and burn
In the mirror of our eyes.
Their struggle sings through us,
Asking if we too are already buried,
or perhaps, if we the living will
speak for those who cannot.
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