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.
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