This year what shall we commemorate? What ghosts shall accompany our odes? Are we forever to bow to a headless myth? Is it right? Is it hopeful? Will it pass on, joining those without cause now gone? Time is a fickle creature shaped like dreams, last year can be no more than one year, the year before that and the next and the next. Ghosts wander in our minds not upon the ground and only in dreams might we call to them. Rage flies swiftly dispersing its grave weight and we feel nothing behind our dead face. Have we ever felt anything, headless phantoms, we? Last year mocks not the year before. It is we, we who mock the solemn red dawn. We’ll soon bow our headless heads in majestic awe and whispers of vengeance soaring on high, burdening the ground with a wrathful screeching sound. Next year how shall we mourn? Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)