the brown and orange sky holds its breath
  as the sun retreats to the distant horizon,
  and our hearts palpitate anxiously as we soon will lay supine,
  and wait for sleep to overcome us
    and from somewhere in our black,
  subconscious minds when we're asleep,
  comes a haunting swelling mass of voices,
  resonating, its screams of forgotten victims and the cries of innocence,
  and the desperate plea for recognition and recompense
    tiny voices, echoes of our heritage,
  our long and sallow faces turn the other way,
  tiny voices, harbored deep within
  as we outwardly deny that they have something to say,
  and if we don't confront them they will never go away
    the billions of tiny pinhole embers fade into a morning sky
  filled with poignant morose wonder,
  waking a bear a cosmetic peace that verifies the turmoil
  which we carry deep inside