WL Schuett

Ancient whispers

 take a breath in 

and try to hold it dear 

while my conscience sleeps 

and angels crack the mirror 

 

breathing in while darkness creeps 

and lustful truths appear 

where ravaged rivers run dry 

and artistic prophets rape fear 

 

ancient whispers haunt 

this dilapidated barn 

music from a thousand souls 

harmonize a desolate alarm 

 

breathe in the night air 

to where a lonely martyr cries 

where the magician disappears 

and the angry poet lies 

 

take a breath of uncertainty 

in the shadowlands of sleep 

stirring a wasteland of images 

as a thousand angels weep