Prose
Poem
Poem
Poem
Prose
Prose
ABYSMAL VOID
By J Marchand, Army
Writing Type: Poem
n my sleeping vision, I stand naked and confused in a deep valley.
The stench of death hangs smog-like as a red sky dawns.
Clenched in the fist of my n1alevolent right ann is a sword,
Bloody and dull.
I ache, and I am alone~
I have killed them all in the darkness.
Hot rain pours down on me, but the blood won't wash away,
It just won't wash away.
It seems I have been through a quagmire I can't remember entering.
Staggered by guilt and shame, I start to weep~
I weep cold tears.
An ancient willow beckons me;
I' 1n drawn to this old tree.
""Why are you weeping,"" whispers the willow.
""Con1e and teil me ... confide in me ... trust In e ... believe in me.""
""Why should 1,"" is my reply.
""Because I have seen many battles and I know all about weeping.
Sit and rest awhile; let my boughs shelter you.
Let my thirsty roots absorb your tears.''
So under the willow weeping, I sit back to bark on the wann,
moist earth.
''I have done horrible things on my journey to this place,
My path of death and horror. I fought my way here,
Dragging them with me through that swmnp.
One by one I cut them to pieces and not one was my enemy.
The most courageous I tortured and brutalized,
And not one was my enemy.
I am an evil person.""
''You are not evil,"" replied the willow, ""Just another lost soul.
And you can be forgiven.
Throw down your sword! Trust me ... believe in me.''
I throw down my bloody blade.
It becomes a serpent and slithers away.
A young boy appears.
I go to him, embrace him,
And arm in arm we walk away as one into the morrow.
