tall silence of the gray

there is a bottom
to this place
tho it looks a lot like–
when you’re on top
when nothing can go wrong
but you’ll find
some different people
at the bottom
where the valley is wide
and flat, and hoary rubble
where the pinnacles
we’d once claimed
hold new flags
in the clouds
tho the sun still shines
and the days
still come and go
and come
and go
as always
aye, you’ll find
some different people
some, the same–
and oft times a few less
than you’d known before
tho there be hordes, unknown
wanderers, and crossed-eyed babblers
and slurring lunatics
or mutes, scratching noisily at their skin
or anarchists, black-clad and clamorous
or some– becoming suddenly
red-faced, and pious
and some are quite loud
about it all
to stave off
the tall silence
of the gray
yet still, they are each
muddle, and murmurs
from miles away
even when right beside you
screaming– about nothing
or about everything
and everyone
and all things
are not really there
the reach of a hand
to comfort another
passing right through
where they’d once been
souls, and flesh, now like notions
become ghosts in the ether
except the ground
the concrete streets
of the fallen cities
there is a bottom
and the stony soil
of the wide valley
unyielding, beneath
those grown weary
tho they’d wish it
give way

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