Homepage Articles Funny Stuff Politics Religion Mad Rant Conspiracy Corruption Search Articles Poetry Pictures

That Pious Angel

Did he run, hunting,
into the woods,
snapping at the heels
of an unseen quarry?

The forest appeared
to swallow him,
out of nowhere,
like the leviathon of old.

I hear his voice,
far off, amidst the trees
baying like a roused demon.
It shakes the grass in waves.

The tremelo rises.
Pain perhaps, or fear?
Something wincing in the tone.
Strident and tight.

But the voice fades,
replaced slowly by
the steady rising wind,
rustling in the trees.

The fetid earth lies quiet,
awaiting his return.
Whispers are all that sing
in the hollow of the soul.

Echos chant in memory,
riccochet at random,
bounding through the hidden corners
of he who was.

Empty echos, and nothing more.

Posted:Thursday, September 12, 2002