The splinter of a spine, bending and cracking, is a sound of music to my ears
The smell of rot and decay, decade after decade, long after they've been forced to stay
The leathery skin and gashes and wounds, the tears of matches and lovers forgotten soon
But the love, the light, the shining gold, the curves and marks of elegance mar their beings
They speak of contentment, yet call for new hunger.
The hunger to track, to find, to take and hide
To steal to my world and place next to the husks of the others.
For what is a church without it's people?
What is the sunrise without eyes to appreciate and lips to force into a smile.
What is a graveyard without it's widows to pay visit and sit for a while.
What is a telescope through which no one looks?
What is my library without all my books?