where facets are worn,
where walls are beat,
mangled and torn;
rust-draped by the
clutch of molted age,
and the world becomes
a lonely grave;
where lovely dust
sway amongst the dawn’s
pale rays; where even
cracks and wounds,
tangled as bolts,
are set ablaze;
where clouds seep
through roots and doors,
to bear along a memory
of wars; plagued waters
to greet a gaunt tree, and below
at the crux of the place—
a fugue of faces, where
shadows speak names of flesh,
now of mettle, and the tender
heart settles at sea,
trapped under steely bonds,
bound by the hourly dread;
where our past sleeps
here, blankly bled;
a scene bereft
of a cry, of a sound—
nowhere to be found except
the space between.