Unheard, or unanswered?
Does it matter now?
Their prayers lifted high in tender faith,
were shattered by the godfist in derisive mockery.
The eyes close,
the grip weakens,
the sight fades,
and the breath grows shallow,
and they are free.
But the gods are not where they’re going
And the river is black and cold
They can have no vessel of silver
They’ll receive no provision of gold
And stone by stone,
the ghosts tear the walls
apart,
For they are a part
of nothing,
having become
everything.
Standing among the ruins,
they mourn their dreams,
and in the gathering light of dawn,
they dissipate once more
And the whispered susurration
of fervid entreaty once more
forms the misty morning veil
around the broken walls
where prayers go to
die.
Beyond Panic 