heralding notes forged from musical mice.
The Lost wander wondering if their second sight has guided right.
Blank, the lake reflecting with shimmers of the night’s chimes
sending shivers down a million fear locked spines:
caught in the trap of night, dark enveloping twisting sheets of nothing
wrapped in fog though alleyways down and across their minds.
bars on one side but they never need to leave
find in the blindness something akin to reprieve,
the selection of redemption though justice eyes are tied tight
and her twisted son striking painted blind, so:
through a splash in reality water drips down to be
caught in lashes tied tight with daylight,
unable to perceive the world around it in need;
taking steps to nowhere never able to leave.
They take up mantles of crusaders lost in dank caves,
and as the fog hits ocean rolling back from the beach
carries with it the hopes and dreams of children who see:
a world they are left to inherit if any of them can bear it
we’ll have a new generation of lost wanderers with white eyes.