In the evenings darkest dusk,
The weeping paths of many feet,
Are broken slowly and regretfully,
The soul, its prey, still hid away.
Its path a trail of dripping rocks,
The stone hard edges bathed in blood.
Such thirsting hunger, forced and bold,
Takes upon the human soul.
For though all tears that have been shed,
Have moved the voice of thousands,
The voice of man, a voice unheard,
Still exists to be forgotten.
© Copyright 2016 ShallowLeaf. All rights reserved.
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