Writhing blackness
tendrils of flame
leaping to embrace the dark
blazing gold
throughout a shaded shroud
the dark light
tainted
in the fluorescent glow
of bare bulbs
and linoleum floors
the futility
of the ones before
who sat suffering
seeing work thrown down
and broken
striving to be
what they
could not
their voices
hang heavy
in the stagnant air
for they too
scratched
meaningless words
onto paper
ripped and torn
while all around
echoed sounds
"A picture is worth one thousand words."
knowing that somehow
they were doomed to die
for they inherited
from some
greater spirit
the sounds
of voices
that could not live
for we all know
a picture is worth
a thousand words
but where would the picture be
without the words?