The Followers

What are these hooded forms?

Mute, eyeless, towers of darkness delicately stepping,

They rose like whispers at my birth

And leaving far behind my mother weeping

Unnoticed ate my years but grew too tall,

So now I cannot see beyond at all.

Their circle never breaks. Nor could they show Remorse or anger if they let me go. Emotion is not needed. No escape is planned From the gradual tightening of their iron band. They cannot smile, or pity, or debate. Unaware of fate, they are my fate.