Voices (Dead Congregation)

The dry heads of the young ones Staring at me await the hour, Mouths halted mid-scream Eyes black with death A golden lamen 'neath each tongue Adorned by sings obscure A body of weeds 'neath each wreck Ritually prepared and bound In the lamp's flickering light I stare them in the eye Shadows dance their faces Their gaze returns mine Demons howling backwards Trees move in the breeze My mind starving for reason When with one voice they speak