The Phantoms of silent hall

His weary footsteps echo in this hallowed hall,                

It's divinity born of ten thousand calls,
Where a thousand men-
Better than him,
Scattered pieces of their souls.
Across the floor, along the walls,
His mind projects each hopeless cause,
A spectral play, the scenes of day,
The phantoms of silent hall.


The seconds count the minutes by-
Hours come and go.
Is there never now to be a time,
when in darkness he can close his eyes,
Leave images lie still behind-
Let peaceful dreams unfold ?

Not tonight.
Spectral plays this endless day,
The pounding arm of the clock betrays,
The phantoms in the hall.

Heavy burden, not of flesh,
But his to carry none the less,
Sweeps peace aside and spills regret,
As he walks the noiseless hall.


 Contemplation, born of same regret, fueled by doubt,
becomes merciless threat,
to the sleep he would recall.
What might have been, what should not be, what he could not help,
now can't unsee,
 plays spectral on the walls; taciturn, unpaused.
Then from his trembling lips slips sigh,
A Doppelgänger to the anguished "WHY" ?
still smoldering in his mind.


Why? 

There is no reason why.
The answer then, Can never lie-
In how GOD answers that cry,
But each man must find inside, 

a reason all his own.

for the phantoms of the hall.

Five Blocks and another world away-
in deepest peaceful slumber lay- tiny boy and little girl,
Tousle headed, dreams secure,

 at the end of a quiet hall.

And for these two, he'd long endure,
Sisyphus' or Atlas' chore,

shoulder the burden, stand his tour, 

preparing his way,

under the watchful gaze, 

Of the Phantoms of silent hall.