stones between old ways and the pain gnawing my senses sway. Breathe foul air around the wall of spite. Restless Souls bordering the site as a fortress. No one can enter the temple of anger. Ira
by knowing abandoned.
Stacked like firewood, skeletons accumulate in this strange place. It is the people of the forgotten.
wander pensively by the deathbed and feel the silence. I speak, I yelling for me to leave if you do not want to end up like them. In absolute solitude.
I can imagine the faces of each of these people. I look challenging to delve into their grief. Each has its history, unfortunately, its truth.
are forgotten people in a sigh, a breath false heat and cold that left abandoned.
In the village of the forgotten one realizes how sad it is to live knowing that they matter to anyone, even yourself. That in spite of attempts you can do to survive the pain, embrace you when least expected and cornering you in silence to end your suffering.
Today I remember that people, because I can not forget. I can not out of my mind distorted expressions of the hopes, the despair of seeing that life is over and no one holds out his hand to accompany you on the final stretch. Nothing is left now but the anger of what could be and was not, what were left to feel. The anger unleashed by hatred intoxicates your soul.
If you are diligent, you can hear the cries, whispering voices torn and distressed every corner.
is the people of the forgotten, a place that does not even appear on the map because no one else knows.
