A road where
two cannot pass;
a table
with three names;
a parable
unspoken;
a field
with no games.
They chance upon
grass of blood,
soft and unwise,
a monster laughs
at their skulls:
“Drown in the flood.”
Sleepless nights
give way to
dreamless sleep.
Chaos becomes them,
utter simplicity
takes a beat.
A thunder
pounds
the mesa;
a shadow
stalks
the horizon;
A schemer
slinks
like a geisha;
A hunter
conspires
to find them.
Hope is
ever turning
away from the dark;
hopelessness
is a reminder
there was nowhere
to start.
Now the three
become one,
ready to meet
their master;
where there is one
may there be four,
with tired legs
they run faster.
The hunter reaches
the grave,
a trap for a
single-minded man.
Focus connects
their eyes,
a trigger,
his blood accepts
the land.
The hydra one
wisps into the sky,
a paragraph
of regret
becomes
a surrendered sigh.
Clay The Scribe 