Slack jawed and sunken eyed they sit in the hall
watching distant horizons with a loons last gaze,
And the tick of the clock seemed to forever hold sway,
amidst the carvings of despair in death’s still maze,
where the silent symphony of dust still plays.
No vacant chair or empty desk, they stood or sat or knelt as could, discovered by time, fugitives all, they had faced the dark-light of an enlightened day
With moral turpitude they recognized,,,, the desperate need for a better way.
One in which their part was small, all ready decided by their absence and time,,, blinded to the growing peripheral threat that rends logic and purpose and weakens the will,
and leaves a numb and empty heart to fill
near the empty fields the skeletons till.
Weathered leather shoes stick to meeting room floor, ,, and no murmurs are left that still might break
the tattered remnants that are left of thought,
the little left for them to stake.
As the (others )claim all they choose to take.
In mockery they were left to conduct the business of the day
with lips worn from mewing in lost dismay,
with no two words held together to speak, and spittle still drying on chin and cheek,
their judgment pronounced and their sentence bleak.
Like particles of soil on an angry wind they each await a gust that will carry them away,
a passing only the flies will mourn
while those that are left stare with frozen scorn
and another into the heavens is torn.
A legacy of independent greatness traded in a day for the title of chattel in a holding pen,
like living corpses able to sit or stand
they still hear the engines of the craft that land
and shriek forth from within their forlorn demand
this referendum of the damned.