A familiar feel for their feet
The basalt cobblestone has become their home
Souls bound to the march
Step by step with nowhere to go
Lips sealed by wire
Silence haunts the weaving stones.
Their grayscale skin stretched so thin across their bones
Their ember eyes once were ignited
Now just ashened by rain
Their own smog surrounding their thoughts
And clouding their brain
Adorned by hooded robes
Their only individuating detail from head to toe
Smoke trailing from beneath the shadow
An endless moonlight, with no deterrence from night, subtly illuminates this life. The husks, all alone on this weaving and winding path, walk with an aching stride towards a mysterious goal. The light never giving enough to see a possible end in sight. The path consumes every bit of their precious soul.
Tender bones and shattered minds
A hidden truth among a million lies
The heavy mist
disguising a world beyond their eyes
Their silent voices sit inside
Defeated in the fight
They drown so easily in the night
The echoes of marching
Ring in their ears
Dulling their senses throughout the years
Yet they stay for the familiar feel
Constrained without chains
A gloomful plague surrounding their face
The black path conquering their days
The storm continues it’s marching drum, soaking their skin to the bones. Bodies trembling beneath the robes as the entities fall in line once more. But there is another noise. A noise in their heads that keeps their minds preoccupied. A treacherous noise not of their own. A voice speaking without structure or warmth. This voice sways them of all lies. Heads never looking to the side, they fear a loss of life. So they follow the voice, heads never wandering, as they march in lines towards a mythical paradise. For restless minds and shadowed eyes cannot truly be the only life. There must be something on the other side.
Yet, perhaps the lie is better than the other side. A doubt is brought to life. A doubt that takes command of a scattered few. Their exhausted legs can no longer take the journey that has enslaved their existence. Turning their heads to the side, with such a view, their bloodied feet cease to continue. This moment, starting a flicker in their ashened eyes, ignites a small flame back to life.