A dreamless sleep,
On a moonless night.
A lost lullaby
That muffles every cry.
A starless sky,
With no sign of light.
No sound, no echoes.
No chemtrails in sight.
A dead world, a lost voice.
Buried in the abyss of my own memory
Of a nostalgia unfamiliar
In a dream, not of my choice.
A word unsaid
A phrase half weaved
Plotting a murder for
a sentence's death.
I attend the funeral,
Of our unfinished sentence.
I pay my respect
My past repentance
I look across the room,
Looking at those murderers.
Weeping tears of some far away crocodiles
Cursing that unsaid word.
A sudden knock, a fragile voice
I open the blue door,not of my choice
I see a disfigured word on the porch.
Too fragile, wavering a torch.
It looks at me,I move aside.
Hides its face, let's that tear slide.
The room roars, with silenced whispers.
Here comes the shameless murderer.
It pays its respect and sits in the corner
The lump in my throat follows its trail.
The service is done, the false grieving over.
The unsaid word leaves before the wine is served.
The loss was celebrated with a grandeur.
But the only one who grieved it the most,
Was the one on the other side of the door.