Wounds.

The Mirror.
You walk upon the shadow,
I have shed long ago.

The Man
I glide upon answers now, on wild whispers
And tended monologues,
A shield upon my shoulder,
A cape along my back,
And toes crowned with steel tips,
For the needles upon this track.

The Mirror.
Ha!
Hopeless masses rolling,
Rolling into sea,
Ships sailing to shores,
Of forgotten eternity.

The Man
White claim synergy,
Black adores the night,
And the grey shelters all intentions,
Colourless and quiet,
And so I have seen the ghouls dancing,
Chained in ethereal gowns,
Alone along the hallways
Of abandoned towns,
Eyes black as silver,
Hair white as grey,
The living they stand speechless,
Whilst the dead has their say.

The Mirror.
Do the fallen warriors of old sleep under the past?
Do the memory of blood, still stirs those broken limbs?

The Man.
The risk of running men,
Is not never running at all,
But of running so far away,
That none witness the fall.

The Reflection.
Who am I? Who am I?
Wet ink, now dry.
Who am I? Who am I?
Can the silent words cry?