December 7, 2008
By Tavie Wiscarson, Cottage Grove, OR

I took a stroll into the city
Along a crowded street
Where I saw one thousand faces
And two thousand moving feet

In every face there was a ghost
A weary, haunted past
A canvas drawn of withered souls
That danced upon the glass

Their melody was silent
As it poured from sunken eyes
A story lost upon the wind
And carried to the skies

The breeze, it seemed to whisper
In a slow and soft caress
Of cold despair and memory,
The chill of loneliness

As I passed each broken spirit
My heart began to ache
And like the glass they slowly danced in
It, too, began to break

Soon their feet had turned to dust
I watched their ashes flying free
I saw myself within those faces
And those faces inside me

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