"citidel" poems
They walk up, hand in hand
Towards the top, with wind and rain,
Fear is high, they sit, they talk.
They know what will happen, just courteous conversation.
He twists, she turns,
Opposite directions for the first time since July 3rd.
Like cogs in a broken watch.
Time stops for them, no more counting
One year, Three months she says, nearly more?
Is that the rain or tears that smother their face,
From here, it’s too hard to see.
She looks out on the Sound;
The wind howls and the rain beats over what is left,
Nature never stops, why are they?
He cries now, his face shows the pain
Cannot suffer it anymore, he’s tried for too long.
I watch as I pass, spectating the commotion.
I’ve been with them the whole time, walking behind them,
Past the Citidel and through the ***
Then I remember, That Man Is Me.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
I cut the chords from my throat,
Presenting them as a
Gift in homage to the
Gods of the citidel, burying my
Resentment with the
Bones of my ancestors.
I ripped the nerves from my face,
Offering my apathy to the
Wraiths that would prey on the
Bitterness of mute lamentation .
I tore the veins from my arm,
Freeing the hidden
Tears that flowed like a
Creek over my
Wrist and into silver phial.
I dipped my quill in the phial
And let the
Shadows hear the
Sound of my voice.
©Nathan A. Brock
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 1:27 PM UTC