a gray coal-dusty wind whistles through the trees
so frosty blue it turns everything concrete cold
clouds from the north paint the landscape white
and capture the waters in a frigid rigid hold
sparkles sprinkle through the early evening air
the setting sun pokes pinholes in the clouds
as the lights of the small town places
snap to life and illuminate
the tears and frowning faces
i can hear the hushed whisperings
of the quietly gathering crowd
saying their silent prayers
underneath their breath
praying what they're saying
doesn't bring them
the danger of death
they can hear
the rasp of the chains around their feet
they can feel
the clasp of the irons around their neck
hope springs eternal
but this spring has run so low
that the townfolk are grim and solemn
as downtrodden as the dirty brown snow
from behind my wall of stone i can see i can tell
even though im a thousand paces away from their hell
a hero is needed as soon as possible
but i dont fit that bill
i cant be that one individual
to provide enough free good will
to deliver them
as my wet shoes sink and suck through the mud
i call upon every bit of strength i have
mentally and bodily i trudge
into the shivering crowd
hands reach out to touch me
to feel a life
with living life
still living within
i can see
the clank of the braces around their wrists
i can feel
the stab of the post through their tongue
to be continued...
