Carrol

And a dream becomes a torment, becomes a bruise.

Lightning strike. Cold black sky. A summer

towards the occasional misfortune of

…what is the reason for the sky?

Towards the past a man opens his eyes

and whispers, whispers the sharpness of

a sin.

Lightning strike. The table falls to the ground.

One leg bends breaks and gives

in a crescendo and orchestra, a chorus of response.

Salt upon the wound bound by time. Tears

upon the wound. What has a child done

to deserve a bruise. Within a moment

a second becomes unsettled. Within a second

a moment becomes truth. I am and have been

and forever shall be. The man sinks to his knees

and cries beyond a whisper… what is left?

Cries beyond a bruise. But there is or is there?

There is only respect and a secret that has unfolded into a,

the cold medallions of the past. I have forgotten so much.

But these hands show their path. This face shows

its path. I have forgotten a time back before time.

Before winter’s whisper, November trees.