A Giant Funeral

The breath of truth blows on closed bedrooms windows unable to reach faces, so Giants sleep.

It is not a matter of being understood.
Giants are known for their hearts and their might. It is a matter of being felt.
and Yet is so seems
Nothing
can touch but the abrupt brush of black ink on white pages that rests expiration dates of fallen soldiers.

Death moves like Life wishes.
Affects Giants like alarm clocks with snooze buttons.

WE walk through Valley’s in the shadow of death.
Fear no evil for sleep is kin to death.
We’ve been here before.

– Hrsh Reyalitee

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s