Tags
actor, bishop, death, dreaming, folk, folk atories, folk tales, footprints, hidden, hunted, hunter, life, love, lust, mouse, onlooker, poem, poetry, souls
Footprints
I walked as the bishop,
They bowed before me,
I looked disdainfully as
I passed along the aisle ,
Occasionally feigning to
Touch their filthy hands
As they raised them
Up, in worship,
Towards me.
I sat up as the hermit,
Left alone in the cave,
The last time i saw anyone,
They stared, as if
I was something other
Then them,
Once, long ago.
I left,
I’m closer to the truth now.
I know, one day,
I’ll find it.
I stepped back,
As the onlooker,
Covering my face as they passed,
On the way to their fate,
Grime-encrusted and foul-smelling,
I longed for the sweet scents
Of my home, once this parade
Of filth had passed,
Watched children pelt
these poor souls with mud,
Before I turned and ran,
Back to my own brood,
Slamming the door behind me.
As the actor,
I spread forth words ,
Written by another,
Given life by me,
Spinning worlds for
An audience entraptured by me,
As they would be,
For many nights to come.
I knew that whichever one,
Man, woman, that I
Brought back to my
Squalid little rooms,
Would talk if it
as a palace,
For years.
As the mouse I hid,
Whilst heavy feet
Slammed into the ground,
Making it quake,
As I slunk closer
Into my hiding place
It feeling less and less
Safe, with every
Shuddering
Impact.
As the hunter I smelt them,
They had been here,
The chase was almost over,
I paused, enjoying
The sensations of my
Weapons, as I readied
Myself, realised too late,
That this might be a trap.
Every moment, every soul,
Passed through me,
Was me, for a second.
I smiled, knowing where
My travels would take me
This merry evening,
I took my scythe
From the wall.
Image
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xx