Calling Time of Death

The hallways are stained with noise
carried by the passing manic hours.

Desperate with confusion, the sickened
groaned so as to be heard above,

by the hands gripping the pen’s power
that signed them away with a cut.

Now, all that remains to be heard
are the uncounted, falling tears.

The weeping, in their tens of thousands,
weighed down by their loss.

The hands, having signed the warrant,
remain silent, hidden from the rains.

calling-time-of-death

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