The Field

“The Field”

I have carried a darkened field, buried in my thoughts—
The grasses there are rotted, despite the rain and light.
On ill winds that murmur softly by, something sighs
Through the still, clinging leaves of fallen trees.

In the wasteland that I hold in this mind,
Something hidden is sleeping in a distant Eden.
Long have I wandered the desert of green.
The birds sing low and lone throughout the year
But only I can hear their songs.

What is the distant Eden?
Is it silence that awaits me?

The birds sing as I wander the desert of green,
Bearing with me the iron bell that rings—rings—rings—
Rings the same haunted note:
The song of the chime is called, “Judgement,”
And the name of the Bell is Remorse.

Pendulous the clouds sway,
The Songs of Ache are sung—
And the distances grow.

No specter at my side haunts my footfall,
For I am haunted by my deeds.
My name is written Nowhere.
My crime is the Unspoken.
And the Bell rings on forever,
And the birds sing of my decay.
Someday, this field shall be my home.
Someday, I shall disappear into the rotted grasses
To the eternal chime,
and the sighing of the wind.
Someday, I will not return from this place:
Executed in one sphere, and prisoner to the other,
Executed by one thought, to be ensnared by that thought.
Is there hope? Is there silence somewhere beyond the field?

© 2022 Marten Hoyle