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My hunched figure bent over--
bloated belly full of famished
fantasies of freedom--
I rush to The River.
I kneel, lapping up muddied dreams,
choking on the flotsam risen to the top,
sipping its noxious nectar until,
until I cannot taste a thing, not a thing.
Rising, I know. I see.
I see the dead along this cursed river's edge.
Two? Or is it three?
Voiceless, I scream, "Why?!"
No Angels to hear...
Frightened, I run-- in place.
And now, I don't know how,
but I open my eyes and look
at these poor fools--
unburied, naked, famished,
frozen as their own fantasies
of freedom.
Fooled.   No Freedom, here...
I sit quietly
and allow the pain
to lessen just enough
to walk to you,
and close your eyes, gently.
Then, to you, I do the same.
And yes, there is one more,
so I step carefully,
having no choice,
still bearing the waters
of doubt and death.
I come to you, now,
come to close your eyes,
poor foolish lamb,
and stop-- myself, frozen
as I realize you might have been--
are?
me.

And fool that I am, try to believe that once, Angels rushed here.