New Story-like Thing: At the Shrine of the Godless

So, this week’s story isn’t really a story, but hey, I take ’em how they come. The first few verses literally plonked down in my head as I was driving home yesterday and saw a bunch of gerberas tied to a tree on the side of the road, where presumably someone beloved had died. The sunlight was streaming down through the canopy and happened to hit the flowers precisely, and bang: story-plotty-poemy-thing in my head.

Hurrah!

Deep in the woods

where the light filters down,

and the godless kneel

with their heads to the ground,

not a creature stirs and

the wind is still

as it pauses to hear

a dead man’s will.

For this is the shrine

of murderers, knaves;

people whose fingers

outnumber their days.

This is the place

where the scoundrels go

before they are tied

in a hangman’s bow.