At Dusk

They take him at sundown
In shackles and chains
Face shielded from the rain
As it falls down in sheets
That frame his tousled hair
In a requiem of sorrow
Feet shuffling slow as sin
Waiting to be let back in
Stars rising like the tide
Far above his infamy
Straining to be free
But he looks at his feet
Moving forward against his will
The endless solemn march
From cradle to the grave
As night falls heavy as snow
Thick with a melancholy
So complete it permeates
In the rattling of the chains
And the tilt of bowed head
A silence that stretches thin
So many butterfly wings
That never touch the ground
Except in fevered dreams
As the sun fades into shadow
And death takes its prize
In the closing of his eyes.



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