10-22-2007, 09:23 PM | #1 |
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The Old Stone Bridge
The Old Stone Bridge
Out for a stroll near midnight, traversing the old stone bridge deep in thought, I was startled and worried to hear a groan. I stopped to listen in the black night, turned round to hunt the source of sighing, looking carefully for any trace of a soul in need. The sob was soft, someone nearing death? It came from above me! I looked up and wanted to run. Perched on a lamppost, was an apparition, a long run up her silk stocking. She was living in limbo, the bridge between this world and the next. Perhaps untimely death had called her too soon, ere her beloved's passion had grown to match hers. She wept and searched as if seeking a small trace of him. She seemed unaware of me in her fruitless hunt. Stealthily, I slid my camera out. I had been on the hunt for a midnight scene to shoot. Entranced, I forgot to run, caught up in the chase, hoping to capture some small trace of specter on film, a grieving face above the old bridge from whose open mouth issued a miserable groan, a longing for release that had been cheated her in death. I focused my lens upon her and suddenly saw Death floating behind her, gloating, with his scythe ready to hunt a new victim, to cull another soul whose aching groan would add to his cacophonous symphony; a new run of haunted arpeggios; a concert on the old bridge, bassoons and oboes illuminating the steamy trace of human forms perched on black lamps. In the sky, was a trace more lightly drawn of a chorus of souls augmenting Death, his triumphant revel. I broke away to scan the bridge and saw on each lamppost, like trophies of his greedy hunt, souls in agony, desperation; knowing nowhere to run. All that was left were memories etched in each mournful groan. Death, the conductor, drove them 'til the awful din had grown, and I questioned why I was chosen to observe this trace of evidence of afterlife from which I had not run. Did I face my own mortality, my own date with Death? Or was I there to bear witness, carry tales of his hunt, Affirming his might that left souls ever haunting the bridge? I swore I would be the bridge, falling on my knees to groan I?d spread word of his hunt, specters of souls whose pain will trace their dance with Death. But then, Death gazed at me. I should have run. Katherine A Minden copyright 2006 Last edited by katepoet; 10-22-2007 at 09:28 PM. |
10-23-2007, 08:37 AM | #2 |
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Join Date: Sep 2007
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I put this up for Halloween. Have fun!
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