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Image for the poem The Traveler 2 . . . Reworked

The Traveler 2 . . . Reworked

Raucous laughter issued from Wickedness,
Which was hidden wherever Wickedness secretes itself.
The traveler cringed,
he'd heard the insidious laughter before,
but Wickedness has never yet showed its face.
Coward.
Instead it played evil games inside his mind.
The traveler vaguely realized why
Wickedness could never be seen;
because a part of it
resided inside of each of us.
The rather strange road he walked was familiar
in an obscure, unfamiliar way.
Since early this morning,
or was it yesterday morning,
oh, no matter.
Since he'd found himself on this dusty road he recognized certain . . . things.
Nothing he could put his finger on and say,
 
I remember this from . . .
 
No.
Nothing like that.
Still, there were surreal qualities,
certain things which defied definition.
Things observed he'd never seen before.
Why then, did he know what they were?
Like the Broken Heart baking in the August heat.
Was it his?
Or some other unfortunate traveler
who had passed this way before?
The Broken Heart
was not like the Valentine Day pretty heart,
drawn so nice and neat.
No.
This heart was real
lying alongside the road,
dirty, dried blood all around it.
This heart was alive and making strong,
thump, thump-thumping sounds
reverberating inside his head
nearly causing him to lose what little sanity
he was holding onto.
Once he attempted to cover up the Broken Heart,
if only to mute its sound.
He had nothing to place over it.
If he had been wearing a shirt
he'd have used that.
but he wasn't wearing one.
He wasn't wearing anything.
He shivered.
It was approaching nighttime;
he recalled it had gotten quite cold last night.
The traveler began to trudge slowly down the road,
shelter on his mind.
Soon he came upon a wooden bridge
over raging, foaming rapids.
He stopped,
fearful of crossing the bridge.
He took a tentative step.
The bridge creaked,
gave somewhat with his weight.
Another step.
Groans from the timber.
He froze.
After a deep breath he took five very quick steps,
was almost in the middle of the bridge
when he heard the most bizarre sounds.
 
İFebruary 12, 2017 / Jerry Pat Bolton
Written by standingmyground
Published
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