Late April

It was late in April when I had first seen The Man,
No scythe or cowl did He don, but a suit of ebony-black,
The clouds were leaden-grey and the winds howled nearer,
The rain had begun, and the mourners had retreated,
Tombstones stood tall as The Man walked through
The necropolis with a near cruel indifference.
The church remains undisturbed,
The stone sentinels perch high upon their parapets,
But, no God was there to ease the buried.
Only The Eternal, The Absolute, The Certain.

It was June when I had met The Man once more,
The summer sun had shone from under the clouds,
City of the dead,
Touched by Jacob’s ladder, the route to Heaven,
So easily visible, yet I witnessed no souls’ ascent.
No other mourner witnessed Him,
His stygian presence terrified me,
I stared up through the clouds,
Yet Caelum offered me no respite
I questioned The Man,
Yearning, hoping,
Awaiting a response that would comfort me,
Yet no comfort was offered,
“I am who you think I am.”

It was October when The Man had appeared again,
The cold, biting winds ensnared the churchyard,
Leaves had fallen from their paradise,
Dying and pallor,
I had attended to the An Immortelle,
The Man, audience to a burial,
He approached me,
“why do you return?”
Denying the truth, which He knew,
I inquired as to the nature of his visit,
Being of good manners, The Man entertained
The question.
“I am present at every burial here. The Mourners deny my attendance, yet I remain.”
“The boy for whom the bell tolls today died overseas.”
I stared at the grim procession gathered by the open grave,
I asked if the boy had died in vain.
The Man scoffed.
Jacob’s ladder had long since departed,
The church bell ceased its hallowed (hollow) chimes.
Once more, I could not determine
The attendance of a Loving God, nor a Spiteful God,
Only the Eternal, Absolute, and Certain presence of The Man.

January had come, and with it,
The winds dispatched from their birthplace,
The frost had gripped the tombstones,
The snow had shed itself from the sky,
The graveyard was placed in a serene, quiet,
And beautiful image.
As if completely frozen in time.
The Mourners were gone,
Too cold for them to despair,
Yet I remain, in the cold, in the snow, in the serenity,
By her graveside.
Covered her final bed in tears,
I remained there for several hours before the church bell tolled.
One, two, three, four, four?
How could that be?
The chimes had ceased,
Five tolls short.
The Man was present.
Nature had yielded for Him,
Time had stopped for Him,
Mankind had feared Him,
Yet I am not so easily swayed!
I stood in defiance of The Man
I rose up against His ebony suit,
I knew what He really was.
I knew of His true nature.
I protected her tombstone,
With pallor-pale arms curled around the cross.
As a primitive beast, I threatened The Man.
I swung out at Him, He remained Certainly,
And Absolutely,
Emotionless.
The Man knelt down, not subservient,
His arm outstretched as if to shake my hand,
I did not reciprocate the gesture.
I made deals with God that day,
Spit in The Man’s eye,
Lay in my own sorrow,
I wept,
I lamented,
The very same lament that The Man had heard,
Thousands upon thousands of times before.

And yet, The Man knelt there, completely unmoved,
Certainly and Absolutely unmoved.
He spoke to me in a strangely alien,
Yet comforting voice,
A voice that surrounded me,
“You will find no solace here”
A fact I had already known,
Though buried, far down, deep, beneath me.
A fact that I hadn’t wanted to be true.
I didn’t look to the church or it’s judgemental sentinels,
Nor did I gaze at and question the skies above,
I simply (dumbly) stared at The Man.
Through an embarrassing jumble of tears,
I shot out a question,
more of an accusation,
Why?
And there I sat, upon my throne of arrogance,
My kingdom of stupidity, my scepter of denial,
And my crown of sorrow.
The Man was my usurper,
Come to throw me off my throne,
He did not reply this time,
Through another choked cry I yelped,
Why Her?
The Man simply stared at me,
His face was older now,
A look of understanding,
And there I sat, righteously usurped,
As I finally exhumed the truth I had buried.
I rose my head to gaze at the sky one more time
One last time,
The clouds parted, and the sun shone on the snow,
The cold, bitter winds had ceased,
There The Man had shown himself,
I was worthy now,
His cowl hid His face,
And the scythe lay by the graveside,
I removed my hand from the emotionless,
Cold, and unfeeling tombstone,
I placed my hand in His.
The bell resumed its tolls,
As a warm frost embraced me,
I was completely and Absolutely alone,
In darkness and solitude, there I lie,
As He led me away from Her grave.

As it were when I first met The Man,
It was by the next late april,
Did the flowers begin to bloom again,
On our graves.