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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required That night old Henry rose up off his bench; Evening's light growing dimmer as the sun set in the west, Throwing stabs of light on the old village common - Masked strangers on the pavement mocking the night. Lighthearted camaraderie in a muted village square; His neighbors laughed heartedly at his final parting jokes. Very soon he'd be trekking his way home through the marsh, To his little house in the swamp where he'd lived since his birth. Loosely tangled moss dangled from the great Myrtle Oaks, Obscuring the purview of the new crescent moon. Shrouded mysteries and dreams from the murky water's edge; Fleeting dominion of a realm lost in the venues of time. Sawgrass Cove on the banks of the marsh; A small, tiny village, where one Henry Wiggins made his last joke. A typical southern town where people stood as one; Yet, things taken too far, can ne'er be undone. Henry heard too much in his eighty-five years; Someone feared he'd gotten too close to home. You see and hear things working in the Post Office Mailroom, Sometimes way more than a beings meant to hear or to see. Bennie Clingon cheated his government by not paying on his tax; Sharon Christian's husband hadn't an inkling of how far she had strayed. Gunter Kennedy drank way too much shine and, Shawn the Weasel stole his cable T.V.. Kenny the Teacher embezzled school funds and Eugene the Plumber, stole from people's homes. Joe the Attorney padded his bills, And Minton the Politician fraudulently lied. Henry Wiggins knew everyone - maybe a little too well - There was no one in town above his purview. But no man strays far from his own circle of friends; And no man's an island living alone. It could have been anyone on that lone trail that night; Henry was never seen, nor heard from again. As the morning sun rose up in a warm, azure-blue sky; No one would ever know, if poor old Henry lived, or maybe he died.
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