In The Locality Of Whimpers
(from the Book of Warnings)

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 cried with a single voice:
Enough is enough, we want more!
Lost as strangers in the strangeness
of going home to find the huts burned
to their most basic 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 certain texts and tribunals. He wasn't
what you would call, a good listener.
These ashes like whispers,
that spooky action at a distance
while he stands to gain more than a few
untended 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."