The choir sang
The bells rang,
Out into an empty void
Loneliness became our friend,
The Lionheart of our dreams
Bore the weight of all things,
The wind whistles each day
Under a chiaroscuro sky
Under which we play,
Our futile and pointless games
Cause us to seek our real names,
Not the ones we were given
But the ones unknown,
Bestowed on us before
We were even skin or bone.
fauxcroft 
Leave a comment