Dedicated to Em
Hard rain lashes at the window like a vile whip
tangled in the unforgiving
hand of a slave master from days gone by.
Yet, he does not know his
command to torture is past.
The windowpanes streak with clear
I see only blood rivers
coursing down the naked backs of
Thunder peals boom
so loudly that the ground itself shudders,
quakes through me like fear in
the knees of cowering slaves buckling
to each report of merciless pride
only to tremble anew with each raising of
stinging leather poised to sculpt with
its white-hot lightning sear,
seeking flesh to shred;
the pursuit of the human heart.
Chill winds, reminiscent of
wailing womens screams
and children crying,
witness to the whips rise and fall,
past barren tree limbs.
I track its path,
feel the sting of ancient leather
enrobing itself around my own back.
The shrieks of
death and dying carry upon curving air
even hundreds of years
removed unto today.
I reach to touch the
inside of the pane,
unearthly coolness when it should be
scorching hot with the blood
of the innocents.
I am not inside the pain,
from the past by particles of glass
tempered in the fiery hotness
of death itself.
And my own blood
cold fused to hot.
nmhill © 13 december 2001
Return to Main Page