Cry not for all those graveyards
that tear in my hand
with each eternity passing by.
The shadows of the wind
and the thorns of that lone rose
beneath the moon.
A little girl cries to the stars
at her unanwered prayers.
The tales of the child,
the broken love of a woman,
and that corpse in her room
are the forgotten notes
torn in the wastebasket.
Each shade of life,
each drop of rain that fall
onto the mirrored images
with black and white photographs
and that gray between.
She falls, she cries, she screams
at the pain inside
with the death and the lifeless dancers
running in circles through her mind.
Engravings of hope and faith,
markings that curse the third eye
as names idlely lay in stone,
just like the corpse in her room,
lying in darkness and hatred,
crying about her unanswered prayers
just like that little girl
who sleeps near the silent graves.