Image is not mine
Their bones, they scream they yearn and feel pain,
They tell of times they had begged in vain,
They hold so many stories each day.
Their bones, they break at each turn they take, they fail and fall at every new break,
They always keep tend to keep them awake.
Their eyes, they look past what we expect,
They see the future none had invest,
They hold the hope of someone instead.
Their eyes, are gray, lack luster, and dead,
In them you search for a story unsaid.
Their story, none can say instead, not unless they say so as well,
In turn they hide, from what they had YEARNED, inside they wish for more that what has been said.
Their story no one dare question, their story no one dare invade, their story many wish to hear, their story in a sense is their essence.
