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.

Its astonishing

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,