Omitted Souls

'up'

in the mountain's pass.
It's centuries old,
and difficult to find.

Twists and turns
make the drive
demanding,

'But'

It's worth the discomfort
To view the drapes
of moss, as they hang
from trees, and rocks that cascade
down to the forest floor, below them
looking like the carpet of a king.
It's breathtakingly...

'beautiful'

Birds make nests and sing
unending songs of praise,
in the trees above the moss,
but only in certain seasons.

Rabbits no matter the time
of day or night,
scurry by in terror.
Their feet hardly
touching the ground.

No one knows its mystery.
No one sees the changes,
as the seasons come and go.

Each time the moon is full,
the dirt under the moss...

'breaks open.'

Hands so thin the
whiteness of bone
can be seen through
transparent skin...

'break'

the surface.

'Reaching/ever reaching'

toward the full moons light.

No one hears the dirt filled
screams that escaped from skulls
whose bodies were possibility buried,

'alive.'

Or the muffled
suffering chokes
as the Earth
resettles over them...

'covering'

it's open wound.

'refilling'

eyeholes, noses and mouths,
of centuries old and recent.

Does sound travel in places
where there are no ears to hear?

Only the mountain knows,
and it sits quietly
hiding its occupants,
as the centuries pass