All Men are the Same

Dead men tell no tales they say;
They’re silent as the grave.
But it's the funeral bells in the depths of hell
That drown their voices with each beck and knell.

It’s said that no man listens well
They’d rather tell than hear a spell
But one man would listen and he’d heard it all:
He heard the voices on the wind in the fall.

They came from far to come and call
The hale would walk and the butchered crawled
They came and went to beg for aid
From a man too kind to turn his heart away.

He helped thousands but they did not fade
Their voices shook him night and day
But he saw within them men in need -
Their sorrow unending ‘til their souls were freed.

He closed his eyes and in his dreams
He heard their pain and saw their screams
They could not rest and they could not sleep -
Until his quest was over, nor could he.

The voices rose to a cacophony
And he found HIMSELF yearning to be free
Free from the spirits who like a spider’s thread
Trapped him, enslaved him, in their stead.

They would find him later in his bed
A message written could be read:
“They would not rest until I bled,”
“All men are the same,” it said,
Even when they’re dead.”