Whispers of the mad
floated like prayers
from his lips, his mind;
beseeching the angels
to leave this place.
Nothing mattered if
he could not clean his heart.
A darkness dwelt,
deep within his very bowels.
Could he not exorcise them,
let them fall into the sea,
like the swine drowned;
a million squealing into
the gates of hell.
Or was he already
consumed by the fire,
and never again to know
peace or watch the heavens
open to pour its mercy
upon his tender head.
The same whispers echoed
into the night;
laughing at his cries,
searing themselves inside,
fearing yet wanting
the hand of God to paint
a picture of;
mixed sparks with stars,
hoping the embers falling
would burn out the evil,
taking over his heart.
İDebby Sorensen Carlson
3/28/06