Tombstone

You turned my dreams into fallacies,
scattered them to a wind
that couldn't care less about me.
 
You nailed my words to a cross
of silence, watched as I rusted
in a rain only the lonely see.
 
Now, you want to speak,
even though there's nothing
under the mask, nothing but a void
that gorges on love and compassion,
the bones of which you spat out
like bullets against a butterfly,
bones which have become
my shrine, my light, my strenght.
 
I'm not sorry you stand alone
in the black-throated night,
I'm not sorry you can't call
on snakes and wolves anymore.
They have deserted you.
 
I can't be sorry.
You dug your own grave
a long time ago.
This is the tombstone.