Woe

What eyes are these
Made of glass and of ore
Which sees not which are hidden,
But tears right through the soul.

What lips are these
Spoke of truth and of honey
Were cracked at the seams,
Slashed,
Bleeding.

What hands are these
Soft and tender as a babe
Held onto which are lost,
Calloused,
Rare.

Oh what heart is this
Loved so freely and bare:
As naked as birth,
As resolute as death.

Woe to those
who hear the deafening silence
Who makes music of
The screeching pain.

Woe be to the graves of the living
Woe
- E.M.B.