They stride through hallways and corridors.
They're down the ravines
while we climb to the top.
See them looking up at us and then they all stop.
Since then, clouds of decay and all that is drained
of recycled emotions and thoughts and of old feelings
are not a surprise to the lovely old skeptics.
When everyone's a hero
is it hard to decipher
the love from the hate,
endurance or suffer?
They swallow their words, I examine them.
Thoughts manifested, ideas blooming in the night.
And still I sleep during these days.
