The screaming of a shadow that works it's way into our eyes. To gift us with a comfort so cold that grows old. Like the past. And, in it's growth, we are but left finding him. In a sky that is not so clear. Going further to lose every emerald of hope. But stopping is for those who sleep. Never fearing to fall in a dream. Satisfied with it's incompleteness. It makes us sing in a tune so silent. And we sing eternally. But the God who was never born and would never die. Never calls upon us. And so our eyes never open. And so our breath never lasts. And the ageless tears that had carelessly fallen down soon dry. Leaving the earth with a memory. A question always answered by a tragedy.