Voices on the Wind Obscure Voices
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.