One would hope for weeping. But this?
This silence surrounded by strange clouds;
doubts and forebodings, black muslin –
an unknowing darker than you’d imagined
even for this gray zone of purgatory. Or,
have they come to judge you, hiding
as they do in sackcloth and ashes?
They know or do not know your past sins,
and even you have become forgetful
of that burden that shadows your shade:
a bird of night – a grey owl swoops
ready to pluck and devour, snatch
that silly grin right off your dullard lips.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.