Classic Poem

They feed on shadows
breathe back what they should breathe out
and deck the tables scrapped by hunger
with their nights and days.
Having gazed so long at nothing,
their eyes behold mere holes of light
and all they hear is the hoarse trumpet
and noise of all the factories on earth.
Their hands flutter like gills,
and their feet imprint the ground.
The prayers they utter
on the premises of time's cemeteries
hover nimbly on the zenith
of a spider's web
suspended from tomorrow's wall.