We sat there not knowing why or how. Though there was consciousness written on the signs in our hands, our hearts were devoid of the words. It had been too long. We had wept too much. Though we still bled, as all do, we didn’t bleed red, for red was human and we had transcended… descended… such a state.
No one had won. All had lost. We paid such a price to what needed to be done that everyone was left with such a human debt, a word that had come to define this day to day existence. Debt, we had spent all we had, borrowed from each other and now here we sit. Our cries remained unheard. We canaries in the mine shouted until we ran out of breath, and though we now lie dead, the miners are still digging up their riches remaining deaf to our cries.
Know that we tried. When the collapse comes, know that we screamed our loudest. Bled until there was none.

He died knowing how beautiful the stars are
Yet without the tongue to form the words
He died watching the beauty of a spring storm
Yet without the hands to paint them
He died hearing a young woman speaking prose
To the man who held her terribly close
Yet he was without the mind to put it to strings
To place it in the bells of the brass horns
He died with a broken heart
Though never held by anyone
He was without the voice to sing it out
As a wailing shout and have others call it honest
You see the fatal crime was not a mundane life lived to death
But rather death laying on a man ever since he was a sickly kid

It is not known from where a reaper comes
But perhaps it is from an artist, dead, before he ever lived