The Meadow

The meadow was deep in thought that night.
She sighed soft wind.
He hadn’t been here in quite some time.
Since he was a little boy who dreamed of
Dinosaurs and airplanes.

Yet here he was.
Writhing under the Willow tree.

Fire burning through his veins,
Clutching, he uproots the cool grass beneath his burning body.
His uniform—torn and stained.
His duty—lost.
His heart—desperate, pounding frantically in all directions.

Escape—
Just trying to escape;
Please—.

The booming ticking bellowed in every corner of his brain.
Every, Passing, Second—
Was striking gunfire.
Each breath—numbered.

And so the meadow hummed.
Seamlessly, a melody of tranquility blanketed the tortured soul.
Such a serene lullaby, just barely audible,
Yet so powerful it hushed the furious ticking.

Then somewhere inside, the gavel fell, breaking.
Breaking chaos,
Breaking into silence.
He laid motionless under the weeping limbs.

Time said nothing as it let go its firm grasp on the man.
Poised was the meadow.
With her slender emerald blades,
She caressed his sweated brow.
Embracing him,
She whispered sweet memories of harmony
Until the bruises faded like ripples in a pond.

When his mind came to order
And his heart rested at ease,
He opened his eyes, and he found peace.