The Gates are calling.
We hear their voices vibrate,
quiet silver lights in days full of mist,
a faint draft from the Underworld,
as we wonder on grey sidewalks,
lined with fading skyscrapers.
Now we dream in visions leaking from raven blackness,
in dwindling hope of another dance.
We wait with lavish masks of chiseled diamond,
in lingering dust that breathes in soft silver chimes.
The music of the Underworld a thick hum in our ears.
We listen and forget to listen all at once,
our bony shoulders touching, pallid skin sparkling,
dark eyes glistening, hearts beating too fast,
Stars fall from the sky and tangle in our hair.
We move slowly, with heavy, broken breath,
until we pick up from the ground, and rise.
We fall in the belief of flying.
We fall endlessly from the cliff we climbed,
plunging through the Gates,
diving into the blackness of the Underworld.