Language is a dream we believe

Whispers of the past

Like death’s melancholy murmur

Echo through the night

Thus we see the empty shadow of what was

The poet is just a disciple

Language, our god

Created by flawed man as expression

Used as a tome of truth and purity

What is it we crave so dearly?

What is it we seek?

Unknowing, we step forward as blind prophets guided by the hand of a broken god.