Sounds of Silence

White shroud of sadness,

and a mourning crowd,

sounds of silence, pleasant to none,

summons me to come, i hear it often.

complacent i may appear to be,

but i am not happy,

a shoulder i can offer i know,

but lose count of tears that had followed.

chiseling through the wood,

i wonder if i knew them,

though 'feet' i did precisely measure,

can i promise comfort to those who lie there?

fading faces i wont remember,

and names no longer matter,

my hands put an end to all

and tomorrow there shall be some other.

some eyes do look down on me,

and i dont ask why,

this is what i do, i confess,

for a 'living', i let their hopes die...