Voices on the Wind
When Evil Smolders
by Mark Vogel
Somewhere in half-darkness a shift has occurred,
where an unfriendly friend burns to blame,
collecting stories to wound and exact
carefully plotted evil. With a face hidden
she whispers lime-colored words seeking
to destroy what yesterday seemed permanent,
my lover and I melting into one skin,
living the slowest touch, unaware a cold front
could barrel forward, pushing a friendís sure smirk,
carrying ammunition for a shootout.
Who needs a reminder a fuzzy past can
wear thin, that even friends can conveniently
forget hugs and handshakes, a history warmed
by holiday jokes about turkeys, ten smiling
dinners with red and blue wrapped gifts.
How sad the lurid light when even saints,
like carefully programmed robots,
can spot dirt in a smudge, and mistake
outrage and anger for fact.
In the wet wind suspicion blows in from afar,
painting grainy cartoon intruders
craving the worst. A nightmare finds form,
peopled with recognizable names,
and my one and only lover has mutated.
She grimaces, holding a shiny kitchen knife
as the phone rings (again)óshe turns
to confront with eyes blinking, language
locked into a script, screaming across
the gulf: Thatís not all the truth.
Now a rank beast escapes from the cage,
and her absent friend nips at cowering love,
eager to use up once innocent words
now stripped shrill. How sad when the light
shifts, and once permanent civilization
stands stark, again revealed as thin surface
smeared in shit. How sad living in
anotherís demented plan, shocked
and mute, neutered like a dog.