To those that fill the silences

Whose names are empty bullets shot in a war they never meant to fight in

Whose names are abused and twisted and pulled apart like old rags

Whose names are screamed over skyscrapers to the beat of a million marching footsteps

Whose names decorate signs built from hands cracked with righteousness

Whose names are marked with holes from leaden tears 

Tears of sisters, of mothers, of lovers, of strangers

Whose names are stained with unknown anguish 

An anguish that only grows with each precise pull of the trigger

With each precise and fatal misjudgment

The names that form mountains

Mountains of perfect forever untold stories

Mountains that from the very first name were already too infinitely vast to ever fit

In those silences.