Monday, February 17, 2014

Written for Klonda

This was written by a kind, perceptive and very talented soul who calls herself She Who Sees.    I thank her for allowing me to share it.  There is a LOT here to think about.  Please think about Klonda Richey.

For Klonda Richey, who Called & was not Answered.
Today I am to die, condemned,
And all the sweet days I long to live
Will come to pass on this icy bank of snow,
In a vacuum of sound and fury,
Within sight of my beloved home
My cats, and warm unreachable safety.
Oh I have known them a long time
My Bringers of death, the keepers of my days
They run without constraint and command,
Loping easily - sniffing, watching, waiting.
I see them in my dreams, they lick my blood
Impassively, from my cold beseeching hands.
I watch them sadly from my windows
As the dying turn to the shadows
And regret, regret, regret - 'accept'.....
Not for me the gentle years of old age,
the love of cats, the scent of blooms in tended pots.
My appeals for life and a purchase of my days
Are not for those with idle hands and
Of all of them, the one who could make things right
turns from me, into his own gorged & agenda'd blight,
Kumpf - do you sleep well in your bed at night?
Today is gone, this bittersweet day,
the beautiful sky, the air, the snow,
My nemesis strikes with a deadly force
From the front, from behind, I am to Fall
As ever I was, falling, down, down, as though
time is Slowed, compacted,
And lost in the smell of their awful mouths,
And the bright blood spattered snow.
I see as if in a dream, my white hands rise
In supplication, and I call with the voice of one already dead
No-one will come, this was ever to be my unwanted dying
In the jaws of these beasts, flayed and naked
My life-force blooming hot and scarlet flowers as I watch
And weep, and scream, in pain, in vain.
Broken, ashamed, helpless, alone
In but a few short steps from the safety of my shining home
Robbed, ignored, reviled, twisting in terror in a death I knew
Was coming for me, as knowable as the waning of a thin cold moon
As sad as the flowers of blood on snow at my final sun rise,
Slaughtered and taken from all that is mine, by Kumpf,
And those who sip from his glutinous, dangerous Cup of Lies.
Remember me.
My name is Klonda.