The man sits from afar watching a silent march. The only light seeps from
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Out the eyes of the marching men, but it is not enough to light the path.
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Still they march, endlessly. The man reaches his hands into the soil and
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Finds a weak, glowing light.
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Under a dim lit sky shadows marched like statues.
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Darkness was coursing throughout their veins, and light shone from their
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Eyes.
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And it was all they had, but it was not enough to light their way: A silent
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March into awaiting graves.
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Turned my back against the night, toward the hope that there's a place
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Where truth abides.
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For here we're left to wonder why we douse the flame and there is nothing
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Left inside.
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We have become as the ravens; mighty in numbers and blocking out the
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Sun... the sun.
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And here my will could never contend: Is this not cold and bent?
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And where does my volition fit in? Where?
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Too weak to wade amongst the dead, too tired to stand amongst the rest.
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So face the sky and tell me how you gauge living in vain?
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Show me the crooked and bent, the shape of contempt...
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Of... contempt... of... contempt... of contempt.
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We've buried the flame, but I contend to dig it up again.
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-----------------
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Post Tenebras Lux
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| A Hope For Home |
