The Echoes of Skeletons

The war crept to a silence among the fields. But the scars of war remained stained upon the lands. Craters, markings upon tree’s, the screams of soldiers echo for eternity.

And though the war has ceased. Coming to spiritual creep, it stills plays out in his head.

Bartholomew, still hears the gun fire. The horrific shrieks of agony as his own men burned before me. He still hears his enemy calling out for help as he plunged his blade into his enemies chest.

The force it took to pierce his enemy bones still resonates in his nerves. The warmth of his enemies blood seeping down his hands still trickles upon his flesh. Their eyes meeting in horror as one descends to death.

The skies above colored in a beautiful blue as the lands below spilled with terror and crimson hue. It all still echoes deep inside his head.

Bartholomew sits upon his chair. Pencil in hand, scribbling away with madness as he tries to convert his sorrow to meaning. He pries back his scars in hope to find answers.

But the relentless hell of war strips him of any sanity. The pencil, forced to follow leaves a trail of cruel ff memories and thoughts. Of damaged emotions, a soul lacerated at the hand of its own kind.

It too weeps as Bartholomew can hold back no more. The once stone heart begins to crack. Tears seep from the breaking heart of stone. But there appears to be no hope from these tears.

Only the release of anger, the repression of unwanted, the visions of war kept in lock and key. Left to be forgotten but no skeletons can be silenced. No dungeon can keep them locked.

For the chains are built for man, not spirit. And so they swarm from his mind like a twirling smoke of darkness. He can write no more as the candle light flickers against him.

The pencil has been worn to its very end. Papers before Bartholomew bleed with woe as he condemns himself in guilt. He see’s himself a murderer, a crazed being born of hell.

He see’s himself worth of no more than a shot of whiskey and a final goodbye. But as Bartholomew fills his gut with a final sting of whiskey. He is strangely welcomed by a feeling he has never felt before.

Something feels lightened, his breaths are not constrained by anxieties. Wiping his mouth of the residual whiskey, he filters through his papers before him.

As if they are calling out to him. He spreads them till each has his own place among his dwelling. He walks about them, muttering amongst them as if they are in conversation.

The candle light begins to dim, his eyes drenched in exhaustion he pulls out a new candle and lights it.

He keeps his mind at a rushing pace with what he feels. He dives into his words before him as if in discovery of something grand.

He searches each paper with little discretion, fluttering his eyes across waiting for something to catch him. He berates the papers with the intensity of his eyes.

A look of accusation, but as time ticks without his notice. Day breaks the silence of night. The candle is quickly snuffed in purpose but he does not blow it out.

He continues to thumb through his papers and as frustration is about to consume him in idle rage of no discovery. He stumbles upon something. He stumbles upon the clue of what has just happened.

He sees it was not that he needed to find meaning in all of it. But to find meaning in what he was doing now. And in his state of conclusion, he gathers his papers, collects them in order, binds them into a folder, closes them in his desk.

He then sits down upon his chair, blows out the candle. Grabs the loaded pistol that sat just beside the candle. Takes another drink of whiskey, smiles a quivering smile, and places the pistol back in the drawer.

That same day upon waking from needed rest, he plucked a new pencil from his desk, and again, began to mark the pages before him, taking up a motion of progress.

—

I think we all have skeletons in our closets and often we think we can bury them forever.

Be kind to the heart that bears your sorrow, A Man’s Traveled Heart

Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words

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