the brown and orange sky holds its breath
|
as the sun retreats to the distant horizon,
|
and our hearts palpitate anxiously as we soon will lay supine,
|
and wait for sleep to overcome us
|
|
and from somewhere in our black,
|
subconscious minds when we're asleep,
|
comes a haunting swelling mass of voices,
|
resonating, its screams of forgotten victims and the cries of innocence,
|
and the desperate plea for recognition and recompense
|
|
tiny voices, echoes of our heritage,
|
our long and sallow faces turn the other way,
|
tiny voices, harbored deep within
|
as we outwardly deny that they have something to say,
|
and if we don't confront them they will never go away
|
|
the billions of tiny pinhole embers fade into a morning sky
|
filled with poignant morose wonder,
|
waking a bear a cosmetic peace that verifies the turmoil
|
which we carry deep inside
|
|
-----------------
|
Tiny Voices
|
| Bad Religion |
