Stolen from its slumber by the whispers of the world A lone deer wonders through the wood The whining wind a summons Willing the beast forward To some place without name Past the tree line’s edge. No longer muffled by foliage The methodical click of hoof on blacktop Reverberates through the night. The ticking of a clock Counting down Until the night fills with light Wide eyes Still body And the wind dies down The night is silent once more. How is one to know When hooves will sprout fingers Antlers into hair Eyes, which if open, Could convey a million meanings. A multitude of memories Splattered on cement.
The room is filled Bursting With emptiness. The people’s tears fall behind their masks. The delicate petals of a rose, Better left un-plucked, Burn through their hands. The whispers of the world Find them in the night. And thus, they gather Singing songs to drown them out Holding one another If not just to be held Wondering If we had only held the Dheer This very way Would he still have listened to the wind?
Dheer Friend | Jackson Mettler
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