Cold hands bring a chill to the bone A soft tickle against their lips Breath escapes like a crack in the windpipe Each sputter and mutter calls her
A scourge as black as death spread wings Across a land polluted A hag takes up her tool There is hope she carries the rake
She steals a glance through the windows Hands grasped around the timber The broom sweeps them all away Silence, a deafening whisper in her wake
The wagon drives itself No horse, a lone man sits On top of his shoulders his head twists and whirls He sees everything
Axle resounding with each turn of the wheel Creak creak creak creak Heavy with its cargo piled high Remains from every stop it has made
A scent of farewell carrying along the wind Will he stop in front of this house, or the next His wheels begin to slow Stopped, the crying toddler cries no more
Aeolith · Sun Jun 10, 2012 @ 08:29am · 0 Comments |