By Noel Ullom
Her voice was always loudest in the wind.
It echoed through the trees
Rattling in freedom,
Sang the song of endless memories
Twisted in their branches,
And told the tale of understood secrets
To all those who sat under the leaves’ shade.
The same voice took the shape of a hand
That took mine in Mother Nature’s own
And carried me to a field of nothing but stars,
The only eyes I had ever learned to read.
But what was it that compelled another
To walk across the very same field
And not meet the eyes of his maker once?
The man walks,
But not with his heart;
His blood pumps,
But not with humanity.
The forbidden steps that had processed
The scarring wrinkles that had formed
Before his wide but downcast eyes
Were forced upwards
By the blinding glare
Of hellfire he placed on Earth.
If only he could run back and find
The distant line between boldness and ignorance
That he had willingly erased
So long ago on that open field.
And as I bury my own small toes
In the ash of a world once familiar
And let my tears fall to the blackened ground
That they attempt to restore with flowers,
I look up to meet the twinkling eyes of the sky
Only to find they are now hidden by smoke
And I cry,