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By Mary Wacaster
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Life, no more than
death,
is just a place set
within walls of eternity
With echoes of each
generation crying their insistence.
The silence is beyond,
but the echoes ring in
halls of each century
With each particle
descrying answers of existence.
Eternally bound,
yet with deadly fear
embracing each quaking soul,
They are walking slowly
through the dark, shadowy vale
Destitute of spiritual
cloak,
dried and burnished as
an earthen bowl
The lonely, the silent
ones, as though they dare not fail.
Where have they gone;
beyond the veil where
now their footsteps fall?
Muffled cries of
generations long swept beyond our ears
Is the silent blanket of
beyond and spreads softly o'er their latent call.
And existence passes
unanswered; unscathed by human tears.
