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Image for post
Painting by Jeffrey Freeman

The rising sun

The grieving men

The house is silent.

The dead lie within.

Hidden from the dawn,

hidden by a trembling hand.

A wet finger,

teeth clamped into the bottom lip,

a tear staining the thumb,

and two fingers trailing the palm,

reaching its bony wrist

searching for its pulse

As a pathetic sob pierces through the terror.

A crack

like a whip.

And the bodies fall.

The smoke billows, muddies the night.

The sweaty men huddle.

They cry as they turn from their sleeping brothers.

All that’s left

is smoke

powder

blood

and strangled weeping as the horrendous whip

cracks again.

The rising sun

The grieving men

The house is silent.

The dead lie within.

Embroidered by the sun

Touched by a trembling hand

Feverish chills down the spine, red swollen eyes.

The tears have dried, but more will come.

Arms crossed against the icy morning breeze,

watching the spirits ascend from the house

hovering to His Right Hand.

Gone, already missed and adorned

and the mourners step into the light

weary, leaving behind their lost brethren.

Hands clasping their wrists, arms,

each other’s shoulders, tight embraces.

Searching for a pulse,

a medic, a stretcher, God Almighty

Forgive us, please.

How could we have known what he would do?

The rising sun

The grieving men

The house is silent

The dead lie within.

Born and raised in CA. Film, literature, music, poetry, mostly gay/queer/GSM topics. Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.

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