Voices on the Wind
by Matthew Christianscher
Seated, surrounded by sacred clutter,
A gaunt and raisin skinned Raggedy Ann.
spoke a mystical language of her own design,
to no one in particular.
Chatoyant green eyes, Medusa’s hair,
body of a withered ballerina,
once was strong and graceful
her life blood long since drained.
Now her stark universe had been reduced,
To twelve square feet of cold, hard concrete
Perfumed by urine, and forty years of sweat.
She was forty going on eighty.
From time to time, blue and green haired angels
hearts on their arms and love in their smiles.
descend with sustenance and kind words,
Nectar and mana from above.
Finally, Ann was off to the promised land.
Whisked away by heroes in blue and gold.
A noisy red box, her chariot, a light show to boot.
Free from the demons that haunted her.
No one there to shed a tear.
No one to mourn or say a psalm.
Beneath an unmarked stone,
Ann lonely in the cold.