dyingflame
11-19-2007, 09:51 AM
The night draws to a close.
The sheep bleat and retreat.
Now, it is safe in the open pastures.
Cautiously they move towards their master.
On the hillside, the shepard grins eternally as the sun sins again.
The cold dew snuggles on his upper lips as if frozen by the moon.
His eyes shrink as if trying to hide as the heat slips
on towards the face unstirred by breath of movement.
The sheep, unguided, confused, lost, scared,
come close around the unstirring shape of him laying there.
They seek the warmth from the dead
bonfire beneath the good man's corpse,
who, it was later said, when they found him stale,
died defending his love, his wool, his livelihood
from the gray windy fires, wild in the trees.
Wolves, unseen, attacking the innocent
flew in and razed the lies into the ground.
The bonfire flickers feebly and dies choked
by the life giving earth thrown upon it by well meaning men.
The glowing embers shuddered, buried by the low weight of soil
just like the man who had breathed his life into their sparking glow.
But they were gone now, the sheep were safe,
and the coals scarlet glow rang dead,
while the rotten wood was wet and charred.
The bonfire, carefully built, started to crumble.
The sun sank again. The wind howled on the unmoving leaves.
Scattered soil was thrown onto his grave,
onto bonfires ebbed the cool winds and gusts of life,
into colder grounds of sighs and cries of buried flames,
the bonfire was blown away, again by life.
He would have done better to use the dead wood
for all the good fire did him against hunger-driven ghosts
who parried blood with knife-edged flames,
and hunted those who rose, defending earth.
While blood and ashes feed the night,
the wolves cry and the men fight-
the fires lower sink into the ground
and lose their rosy courage glow
and into nothingness
flow
The sheep bleat and retreat.
Now, it is safe in the open pastures.
Cautiously they move towards their master.
On the hillside, the shepard grins eternally as the sun sins again.
The cold dew snuggles on his upper lips as if frozen by the moon.
His eyes shrink as if trying to hide as the heat slips
on towards the face unstirred by breath of movement.
The sheep, unguided, confused, lost, scared,
come close around the unstirring shape of him laying there.
They seek the warmth from the dead
bonfire beneath the good man's corpse,
who, it was later said, when they found him stale,
died defending his love, his wool, his livelihood
from the gray windy fires, wild in the trees.
Wolves, unseen, attacking the innocent
flew in and razed the lies into the ground.
The bonfire flickers feebly and dies choked
by the life giving earth thrown upon it by well meaning men.
The glowing embers shuddered, buried by the low weight of soil
just like the man who had breathed his life into their sparking glow.
But they were gone now, the sheep were safe,
and the coals scarlet glow rang dead,
while the rotten wood was wet and charred.
The bonfire, carefully built, started to crumble.
The sun sank again. The wind howled on the unmoving leaves.
Scattered soil was thrown onto his grave,
onto bonfires ebbed the cool winds and gusts of life,
into colder grounds of sighs and cries of buried flames,
the bonfire was blown away, again by life.
He would have done better to use the dead wood
for all the good fire did him against hunger-driven ghosts
who parried blood with knife-edged flames,
and hunted those who rose, defending earth.
While blood and ashes feed the night,
the wolves cry and the men fight-
the fires lower sink into the ground
and lose their rosy courage glow
and into nothingness
flow