In The Locality Of Whimpers

The static of those times was deafening,
transcripts and telegrams bogging
down all the lines, apothecaries
and epistlaries grew quite rich.
They all began to tell their stories,
everyone of them, quite dismal
because of the chatter and negations. We all
hoped for more but came up with so much
less. So many forgotten aftermaths,
so many more to make, we felt quite sad.
Our whimpers grew into infamous
proportions, exponential even,
until we wept with a single growl,
"Enough is enough, we want more."
Lost as strangers in the strangeness
of going home to find the huts burned
to their very interior ashes, those
ashes in the sky or the breath
of our friend Iblis. He was tremendously
hard to find except in the fine print
of the conventions. He wasn't
what you would call, a good listener.
Iblis produces ashes like whispers,
his spooky action at a distance
and stands to gain more than a few
borrowed souls and heartbroken women,
a real deadbeat dad rounding up his vixen.

That is what they say about him anyway.

She said to him early on, "Come and get me,
if you can. I hide quite near the tan area
called the gray matter. It isn't easy to find
but try anyway. I've got nerves of steel."


***And who was to figure that he'd burn my hut too. Never a dull moment in this battle.