Kristopher Curran Poet Prose Poetry

Apparitions

A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and darkened by the growing night. 
Upon it sits a man, his legs and mind yearning for the ground below. He is a good man.
His mind overthrown by rage, his cause forgotten by the rest of them, his paltry family and  buried friends.
A stranger approaches from the dark to cross the stone structure, he is old and unafraid, for the hour was late.
"It is dangerous to be seated up there, do you plan to fall?"
Yes.
"What have you done?"
Done?
"Yes, what have done that is so wrong that you must fall?"
Nothing, I have done nothing.
"Then why?"
The hour is late, my mind destructive, I am alone and have succumbed to hatred.
"Hate. Is it not close to love?"
I do not know.
"Then allow me to tell you."
I will not, for you do not know me.
"Have you said your farewells?"
Farewells are not needed, why must you talk? I wish to be alone.
"I talk to you because you are here. It would be strange for me not to play the enquirer. Have you loved? Have you lived? Have you felt all emotion?"
Questions are not needed. Be on your way.
"As you wish."
The old man walks into the freshly grown darkness, until he is gone from sight, his footsteps sound no more. His questions now ever present.
A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and illuminated by the growing morning.

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