Dead Congregation - Voices

The dry heads of the young ones
Staring at me await the hour,
Mouths halted mid-scream
Eyes black with death

A golden lament '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