All I heard was the shouting, "Save me C.S. Lewis! Save me C.S. Lewis!"
There was a man who told me his name was Dignity, and he was feral, rabid, and circling the drain. Everyone in the whole town just watched. They wanted it to stop but they kept watching to make sure he didn't struggle against the eddy.
One of them reached out to Dignity. The butcher, whose name I don't know, who cut up animals for a living so that we could all close our eyes when we took a juicy bite covered in sweet and savoury sauces that dripped down our chins. He handed an anchor to Dignity, who tried to reach past it to take him by the arm but he placed it firmly into Dignity's embrace and wrapped his arm around it.
The anchor was a gift Dignity could not refuse because it was the most valuable thing he then owned. He folded it into a neat square and set it in his pocket.
The crowd was starting to disperse and of those who remained some were rooting and some were booing. The cloud of encouragement and disparagement created a noise-canceling effect, leaving an holy silence.
I listened intently.
In the distance on another planet I could hear the songs of my brothers and sisters calling to me with encouragement. "By the rivers of Babylon..."
And these words were meaningless while encouraging. "...requiring of us a song..."
So I sang with them. "...in a strange land."
YOU ARE READING
Bleeding Poetry
Poetry"Bleeding Poetry" was a feeling I had representing the need to let something out, in order to be able to refocus back on the "real world". Sometimes in those moments I can write something and get it out of my system and then go back to work. These...
