A Humble Interpretation Of A Spied Conversation

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Embers_Before_God
Member

since 2001-03-06

Posts 101
USA

0 posted 2001-04-21 02:56 AM

It was like suffocation—
The clouds—
Their unseen hands
Wrapped around
Fingernail moon.

Not much light,
Except for a touch
Of bloody crimson
Flickering in the distance.

There was an unknown man,
A man who could have been you,
Walking slick streets
Of cracked cobblestone.

From afar,
(As if it were I
Who would soon
Choose his fate),
He appearance seemed simple.
Yet it was discernable
That he adored
Fancy shoes and dress.

He walked,
(Was it you?)
Walked with a slouch,
Downcast eyes,
Hands hidden
In baggy pockets.

Yet if it had been you,
And it had been I,
Who’d seen,
I’d have to question why
You whistled a happy tune
With sullen eyes
As if you were waltzing
With the thickening fog.

The crimson flicker,
The flash of shining orange,
Grew closer,
Closer as he reached
The end
Of the slick, steel-hued path.

If it had been me,
Who had, perhaps,
Seen you,
I would have watched
As you turned to
The blazing flames
Of a crimson fire,
Popping embers,
A puddle of ash
Beneath a few stray sticks
That hadn’t burned through.

If it had been me
Who witnessed you,
(Assuming my theory’s true),
I might have seen
You step off the path,
See your hands
Touch your face,
Puffs of breath
Exhaled with grace
To warm your chilly limbs.

Now I cannot say who,
Though it could have been you,
(If it had been me
Who happened to see)
Who watched the fire’s breath
Color the night slate,
Spiraling upward,
Mingling with fog.

Despite the trench coat
Upon his (your?) shoulders
And, of course,
From my well-hidden position,
Assuming it was me, indeed,
I may have been able to tell
That the air was quite brittle.
Enough so,
To raise the hairs
On his neck—
But to see,
I would have had to be,
(Assuming it was me),
Oh, so very close.
But it would not
Have taken a dog’s nose
To smell your breath’s alcohol.

If it had been you,
I truly haven’t a clue,
For I don’t claim it was I,
That you happened to see—
The figure that sat
By the glowing crimson fire
On a nearby fallen tree.

But if, indeed,
It was I
You happened to spy,
Though I don’t wish to accuse
That man of being you,
There was no way
You could have seen
The glint of my eye
As I sat motionlessly
Beside the sparkling fire.

Leaves from an aging maple
Blew past the unknown man
(I know not, if you tire
From my assumptions,
Only that over by the fire,
I thought you were that man),
Like a flock of birds
Escaping a sudden storm,
Face turned to avoid their assault,
A thankful sigh escaping,
Knowing he (you?)
Had finally been caught.

Squatting next to—me?
No, it couldn’t be—
The man,
I knew you could see
The cudgel that rested
Against the fallen tree.

Now I know
It was hard to see,
If, indeed, it had been me,
For the guy upon the tree
Had a hidden face,
Draped and covered
With a silk hood colored ebony,
But his eyes—
Or were they mine—
Were not as blind,
For those eyes,
Oh, those eyes,
Just as the crimson fire,
Burned just fine.

Then the faceless one said,
"I am the one without a face.
My eyes burn from hell's swift lakes
And I do prefer a cudgel
To that of the popular mace."

The unknown man
(Was it you?)
Stared with fear,
For it was so very clear,
That something tragic
Loomed quite near.

And, had it been I
That happened to see,
I would’ve seen
A shivering mass,
A heart beating fast,
Full of fateful pain,
Blood warming
His every vein—
Assuming it was he
And hopefully
Not you
Whose vein
The blood ran through.

He or you
(I’m tired of asking who)
Stared at the flames
Of the stranger’s eyes
That were filled,
Through and through,
With hate, deceit, lies.

He fell back
Into the mud
With a clichéd, resounding thud
And an ember landing on his chest.
But, believe me,
Though you seemed not to notice,
You were no different than the rest—
Assuming it had been me
Who had given them their final test.

You seemed not to care
That the air smelled of your flesh,
Only listened for the man with no face
To speak more words of grace.
I was not one to disagree
(Assuming it was you and me),
If you wished to listen so intently.

"I am the man without a face.
My hands are made of bone
And I've come to take you home
From the life you lived in misery,
For pain is what you yearned
And now, forever, shall you burn."

And I rose
With a fluid motion,
(The assumption that it was I,
Was, most definitely, the notion.)
And I pointed a bony limb
At the man who was, indeed, you,
And spoke a few words, too.

"Come with me,
Child of sin, child of hate.
Your time is up
And, alas, this is your fate.
Clasp your hands
To your chest
And I shall do
All the rest."

You felt great pain
In your chest—
Heart pounding too fast.
Clutching your chest
With feeble hands,
Screaming into the fog,
Wind rising
And blasting past,
Soughing through the trees
And dousing the flame,
The end nearly reached
In this final game.

Oh, I had to laugh,
As I spoke for the last time—
A love for words in subtle rhyme.

"It is your time at last,
Unknown man.
It is you
Who has been banished from this land.
You lived your life
By the flask
In hopes of hiding sin
Behind a mask.
You wept
At your mother’s grave
But forgot
All she gave.
You transgressed
Against your family—
More hidden reasons
For this bleak reality.
For this, you are damned
To follow me to Hell.
For hate
Is a hard thing to sell.
Lakes of fire await you.
Take this flask
And do what you do."

And you watched
As the flask flew,
Catching it on the fly,
No longer daring a glance
Beneath my hood,
Nor into my eye.

You seemed not to notice
The words I spoke,
The cudgel I held
Behind my cloak,
And opened the flask
With grinning eyes,
Ignoring the pain
Swelling inside your chest,
Awaiting the answer
To the final test.

And how I laughed
With such ease
As you swallowed
My fate-filled disease.
Into flames, turned the flask,
Followed thereafter by your eyes.
And the wind picked up,
Your screams in disguise
Just as your mask
Foreshadowed your lies.

I’ll give you credit,
You tried to stand,
Losing your footing
On slippery land.
And your final glance
Into my eyes—
Our flames matching
For the first and only time—
Were filled with disgrace.

But that ends
My humble interpretation
Of our spied conversation,
For your heart ceased
With one final thrash
And your sin-filled eyes
Joined the pile
Of damp, useless ash.

TkB
Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved

[This message has been edited by Embers_Before_God (edited 04-21-2001).]

Sunshine

Administrator

Member Empyrean

since 1999-06-25

Posts 63354
Listening to every heart

1 posted 2001-04-21 07:57 AM

at 6:53 in the morning, after trying to take this all in, all I can say is, I do hope you've come to grips with the matters and concerns that have brought this piece to light. I cannot say that I enjoyed it in the manner of "beautiful poetry", but I will say that it intrigued me in the manner of looking into someone's mind and soul, a poetry of its own nature, and a gift bestowed by you to me.

So it naturally goes into my library so that I can revisit it occasionally, for I feel it has more yet to teach me.

Embers_Before_God
Member

since 2001-03-06

Posts 101
USA

2 posted 2001-04-21 11:34 AM

Honestly, perhaps one (this "one" being myself) should check their poetry before posting it.  Yet, I must say at 3 in the a.m. is a little late for me to be proofing anything.  It WILL get corrected, I assure you.

Anyway, thank you Sunshine for your comment.  Don't dwell on the subject and try to ponder it, however.  My love lies in fiction and horror and I can assure you I'm the last person that would take up such a fantasy...Embers

Dance with me under the moon.  Touch my pale skin.  Devour me.  Love me.

[This message has been edited by Embers_Before_God (edited 04-21-2001).]

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