The Blind War of the Sole Survivors

Dedicated to the fallen young men and women in the first half of the year 2014.

Last night, I took a walk with Death. He waited patiently at the end of my driveway as the sense of astonishment left my visage. There was no fear that accompanied his presence, but in his eyes I foresaw a somber evening... Slowly we walked, side by side down the broken road, as would childhood friends . The silence between us reminded me of the aftermath of a lover's quarrel, how the wounded pride seemed to bind your voice; Leaving only sadness and a sense of regret.

Every once in a while, he would stop and survey the surrounding area, as if being called out to. In my curiosity, I came to a halt and returned that same sense of patience as he caressed the blade of his scythe with a trembling, loathesome aura about him. He looked at me and sadly smiled before vanishing with the wind, and the silence that offered me both solitude and benign neglect became my adversary in an instant....

As I continued down the road, I was overwhelmed by an impulse to deviate from my usual path. A chilling breeze was the culprit, and I perceived this phenomena to be a signal from my unknown friend... That night, I listened to my instincts, as every step I continued to take compounded my feelings of paranoia and anxiety. "Turn away..", said my heart.

That night was unusually calm,  and I was determined to reach my destination without incedent as the full moon seemed to cast it's celestial gaze before me. Illumination that would remain elusive to an untrained eye. I thought of the sad smile I had witnessed upon his face. It seemed as if his plans were altered, and he left my side prematurely. Though silent, his movement had spoken clearly.

As I neared the highway, I heard what seemed to be a battle of the Gods. Morbid repetition tore into the peaceful silence, leaving a sense of betrayal for all to witness as the smell of blood filled the air. I halted as I finally reached the highway, a grim realization caressing my shoulders as he reappeared to me. With a bowed head, he patiently waited for me to cross.

 

In his hands, he held two gemstones. The first, painted an ominous, luminescent Crimson, shook violently in his hands.  In my presence,it seemed there was a sense of jealousy and hatred being emitted from the first stone, and my spellbound gaze was broken involuntarily as he slowly pressed the stone against his cloak. Suffrocating the light within, as it disappeared with the subtlety of a stray cinder.

I silently watched as he lowered the empty hand and presented yet another gem with the other. This one emitted a soft, white, warming glow. Silently calling to me, feeding from my heart's resolve. I slowly turned my gaze to the eyes of death, as once again he began to fade away. I saw a single black tear fall from his face as he finally spoke to me, "It is not my touch that calls them home these days, it is their own...."

Author's Note

Constructive criticism always welcomed.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I like how you led to the powerful ending.
, "It is not my touch that calls them home these days, it is their own...."
Death is a special spirit. You don't want to attract his attention. No weakness in the powerful tale.
Coyote

[Sami Khalil]

A chilling reminder of this phenomenon of our modern times, a blood-filled witness of this tragedy, a compounding of feelings in this call. A great dedication to the fallen young with your compassionate pen...Excellent, sir...:)...............