Chronicle
Of Souls
III
A small shuffling of feet
He cringes at the sound
Starched clothes and bedsheet
White walls all around
People make him go blank
Two faces are all he responds to
In his mind it's damp and dank
Nothing for him at all to do
The lady hands him a paper pad
And a pen to make it work
In all this time he's had
Only once gone totally bizerk
He cannot write in words anymore
He can't remember how
Doesn't know what he's living for
Or what they ask him now
Then his hands move to the pen
Grasps it in knarled fingers clumsy-like
Looks like a child just then
A silly golden-haired tike
The ink is moving
In lines, then circles, then pictures
He understands
He draws a house upon a hill
On a seemingly autumn day
Leaves are blowing in the newly chill
A path is worn from those on the way
In the house a lonely man sits
A long shiny gun across his lap
The fire in the hearth is throwing fits
And there's a hanger without a cap
He turns the paper over
And it crinkles on the disinfected tabletop
The Lady carefully looks over
Making sure he won't pop
The house upon the hill
Has a peculiar sign on the door
A few letters are faded, as some will
It's hard not to see what for
"Con em ed" it reads with brushy
strokes
The Lady reads to herself
The man convulses, rocks, and chokes
Then places his broken soul on the shelf
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