The Nothing

The old man stoop atop the hill The calm, gentle breeze brushing against his face And through the wind there came a whisper That seemed to come from another place Then all was silent once again As the old man, desolate, alone, Gazed upon the icy stone That did mark his future home (The last one he would ever own). Upon the steeple to the west an owl screeched It's cry of despair echoed through the far and distant hills And the old man winced in pain as a whispy limb grew near And touched him, ever slightly, bringing forth both convulsions and forth chills And the old man whipped around, ready to meet his greatest fear But saw only Nothing. But like the wind that chilled him so And the heat from Hell below He felt an unseen presence. Am unseen terror. An unseen evil. Conjured by an unseen devil. He ignored the dread and stared back down At the cold gray stone by the edge of town Across the tracks not recently abandoned With sand and fox-tails growing round And by the stone there sat, behold, A small and silent marigold Which brought a warmth into the cold That enveloped this man of old Who smiled at this small oasis In the desert ground tenacious And gently stooped and plucked the flower Transferring into his hand its power And smiled as he smelled it in all its modest glory And for an instant, giving him sweet shelter from his worry And in this moment of beautiful bliss, once again the hand Whipped across the distant hills and grabbed upon the man And ripped out his peaceful essence, then the soul and hand Slid back across the horizon, leaving the coil of the man Lying cross the stone and sand Becoming one with all the land A smile still upon him and The marigold clasped in his hand. So ends his journey, by death's sting A victim of this dreaded Nothing.