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
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


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