Who dares to dance the shadows where echoes solemnly stir?
Is not the past a penance, fair, for memories to blur?
The relics of ambition, but a forgone afterthought,
Coming to their fruition prove some things are best forgot.
Thus imbued, duly renewed, why shake your fist at time?
The demon seed, history’s deed, forever-trapped in rhyme.
Where yet the scavengers of hope drink from the well of sorrow,
Never coming to see today as yesterday’s tomorrow…
…Or wake to wander in a dream that outlives such misgiving;
Cries from unburied dead that seem yet haunted by the living.
An empty face, an empty space, it’s really no surprise;
Some move to a far better place but weighted souls won’t rise.
Instead we writhe, and pay our tithe to some forgotten trust,
As even Death passes us by on wings as dry as dust…
To share, at most, the blood of ghosts in promises unbroken.
Listen to the silence, my friend, indeed, the dead have spoken.
Michael Anderson
