Step softly now,
For if you come softly,
you just might catch a glimpse.
The empty ones with their hollow eyes,
standing by, scurrying through the trees,
most fill their lives with weeds,
bare feet on the leafy ground.
If you come,
with your sorrows shed away,
it may leave room for theirs,
With inspiration so great, but condemned to suffer.
They may as well be blind,
For through their tears they see mist,
The Hollow Ones,
The Empty Ones, souls amiss.
No light in their step,
No marrow in their bones,
If you must come then you must do so alone.
The hollow ones,
Shadows of their past,
what was once blooming,
is dying, fast.
The empty ones, once were kings,
crowns of gems on their now hollow skulls,
Now they wear a crown of thorns.
They once saw the lights,
the beauty,
but all ends up quite empty.
For the Hollow Ones,
Once artists in their time,
pursuits of passion and love,
Alas, cannot last.
The shadows of themselves,
who hide between the leaves,
concealing wounds that will never heal.
Blood weeps form their cuts, and tears from their eyes,
Once so fresh, so young, so new,
now melancholy, forever chastised.
The scepters, the brushes, the conductors sticks,
their hands now tired and weak.
Nails broken and yellowed,
Hands dry and bony,
Never again to create.
The Hollow Ones,
The Empty Ones,
You have sealed their fate.