at last, the
bells have stopped ringing, the
choir ceased singing,
dead notes hang in the
ever-fresh air and
far too many melodies remain unsung.
greatness is a trait one is born into;
honesty is not learned,
in this case, neither is love.
juxtaposed are the two households,
killing between them a
long-awaited
massacre of
nobodies. nobody is alive, so many dead;
opportunities wasted in this
prison they called home because their
quick judgements of others gave them
rivalries to
spare, dead eyes to stare,
turmoil internalized.
unless they stopped, the
Vikings they thought themselves to be,
would be slaughtered and carted away with
x's marking the themes of death they followed.
your eyes never saw this, but you feel the
zenith of it over the rise of the next day.
