I wonder how many more will be lost to this. All that have failed have been given the final kiss. Lives are scattered beneath the face, broken hopes of those who lost the race.
I can hear their incessant caterwauling as they tumble, tumble down in to the abyss. The wind blows ceaselessly mimicking the cries of the bereaved, a sound so sad that even the indurate could be brought to their knees.
They came with a hope and belief greater than most have ever possessed and wielded their tools to fight their impending death.
To them it was home, where the cold wrapped tightly around their bones, wound in the unloving arms of the wind, the rain and the snow; they felt a deep purpose few could ever know.
For some it was an art, a canvas to draw their lines, people built strong in heart with beauty in their mind. They etched their own destruction and created pointless pain, in order to find meaning in a world at disarray.
Others came as actors; here for their crowning show in a theatre with no audience, they lead the closing scene, the curtains came crashing down, bringing an end to their routine.
Many were romantics, at hopeless surrender to unrequited love; no longer could they be at peace so they disappeared into the above.
The chattering heads babbled mindlessly, like cackling crows they passed endless judgment. They picked at the fallen, the frozen corpses; their contorted spines and gaping mouths, piled one atop another, cracked legs and twisted arms intertwined in their final moments. At this altar came those who followed suit, ready to begin their upward struggle, they needed no salute.
Yet still they keep on coming in their humble and inspirited way, leaving behind the voices, they live only for the day.