Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Taskmaster's Victim

His spirit crawls within the walls,

Waiting…impatiently…for the proper empath to emerge.

He knows that she will be there eventually.

Free spirits in the art room

Temporarily soothe his torment,

But cannot satisfy his eternal desire.

He awaits her passion, her knowledge, devours her fear.

The recognition is gradual,

Both so self-absorbed in their pain

That they almost miss the connection

Despite the warning

Of the wind

The movement

The anger

Permeating the passageways.

Silently screaming with frustration

Calling out to her within the stifling halls…

He daydreams of her duality…

Is frightened by her company of angels.

She senses him, but then again,

She always senses something, someone, wherever she goes.

Refusing to hear that voice,

Walks outside, breathes in the fresh air

And clears her brain of the improbable.

He begs to tell her his tale,

Of his broken spirit

And decayed soul,

To obtain her absolution.

She dispenses with his foul fumes that pass through her heart,

Continues to walk through the courtyard,

Gasping in the warm, humid air of the night.

Tripping over the headstone of the first schoolmaster,

Wind rises from his grave

Emitting faint laughter

Transforming her thoughts into sculptured ice.

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