Talk:Pale Walkers/@comment-1196539-20140719010114/@comment-7706473-20140719110406

None can fault the words you have so spoken here

For in them, fair truth is found.

Strong roots in strange soil create tapestries

Lying hidden amongst so much slumbering dirt.

But how dangerous it is to state the nature of our craft,

Of those who, in the shielded arms of dusk find our rest.

Jealously shepharded by the light of sun do onlookers watch:

The envy that stains their teeth

(As my own, more soot then bone)

Makes cadavers of their smiles, and grimaces of their grins.

How beautiful the idea of unity in such troubled times!

Glorious, still, the whispers in darkened rooms

And the pride found in the reflections of those whose hearts stop

If only for a moment

As we pass them by.

And yet -

Still, the siren song of night is high, and the moon refuses to shine.

Manic was the chattering of the breeze which, sheltering the words of thine

Cast so many leaves among the unwalked pavement, crackling underfoot.

And the night is still young, and the evening is fair, and perhaps the sun will not rise -

So let us walk for awhile, and trade stories and cares

Until shadows melt into the sun.