At The Witch Trials

The company marches on in a funeral procession .

The mother weeps, and the minister keeps

His Bible verses echoing, echoing

The spectators follow and watch with weary eyes

His families’ eyes are blood red with weeping

And at the head of this procession is a dead man,

Carrying a stone almost as large as he

His feet are swollen and aching,

His face and body are caked in mud from the wet ground

He trudges onward, onward to his destiny

The foggy woods are silent,

The lantern of incense mixes with the fog

Its smell is dampened by the cloak of mist.

The silence is broken with the cries of mourning for a man not yet deceased,

And with the minister’s redemptive words for a man so falsely condemned.

The man’s ankle is raw,

It is chained by a chain to the stone he carries.

The trees are barren of life

They lie in the mud and die on their roots.

The company stops, the man has fallen.

His lower body lies in the dirt and puddles of water

While his chest heaves for breath on top of the stone.

The man wraps his arms around the stone

He struggles with its weight

He slides his knees beneath him,

His knees push aside mud and decaying plants as he does this.

Why does he struggle to lift the stone?

How does he find the strength to move forward to the end,

To his destiny.

He stands

Each step he now takes is a year of his life,

Taken away, by his own willpower to see the ending.

His chest heaves, the pain in his breath betrays his façade.

How defenseless he actually is.

And he moves forward, ever more forward.

Through the decay and dying woods, a lake comes into view.,

Life in the midst of death,

Except it is life used for death.

The man stops at the edge of the water.

The company gathers behind him,

Whispering pleas, and prayers.

The man turns to his love

She is not looking

She looks at a blooming rose in the midst of the blue and gray woods

It is red, beautifully red.

She picks it with a tender hand and holds it to her chest.

She turns to her love and weeps.

The man turns toward the lake,

He inches forward, the lake ripples of his life with each step.

The woods are silent,

A silence quieter than death

The company is still.

Will he live? Will he die?

He is dead either way.

The Bible rots in the minister’s hand.

The water washes around the man’s shoulders.

He blinks away sweat, mud, and tears.

For an instant, the stone is weightless in his arms.

And with a defiant breath, he lets go.

The stone sinks to the bottom.

A moment of silence,

And the man is pulled beneath the surface.

To the bottom, to the depths.

Never to resurface.

The company mourns in silence.

Why did he have to die? What was his crime?

They knew, they knew

But they were wrong.

They knew, they knew.

His love releases the rose.

It floats over the surface of the lake,

And rests where he sank.

The minister closes the cracked and decayed Bible with a frown.

The man was innocent,

But his death was not by his own hand,

Because a man cannot kill himself without the aid of others.
TheCrowing TheCrowing
18-21, M
May 9, 2012