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Lingering, searing, voices rise amongst a feeling,
Twisting, bleeding, body limp and vocals screaming,
Suffering, agonizing, sharp and cruel rips the flesh,
Beating, pulsing, heart pulled from a lifeless wretch,
The cradle swings forgotten by the winds of disgrace,
A shadow cast whose expanse covers and envelops,
Consumes the faces of the kind and the hopeful,
Devoured now by the doubtful and the hateful,
A pale sunrise sheds light to long withered trees,
Broken and dried by the droughts of utter apathy,
The wind blows from them and rocks the old cradle,
Yet the sound is wasted upon the sinner's table,
Secrecy and hypocrisy, Silence spoken aloud,
Obvious yet hidden, Discretion cast aside,
A longing gaze turns hopeful then dies earnestly,
A brittle hand reaches out meeting not but mere shadow,
Perversions of doubt tear the soul leaving none to spare,
Torn apart and mangled hence, sorrow rides the air,
Wolves feasting upon the shadow, torturing a broken tree,
A crippled man trails from the cradle, and never hinted that I was he.