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.


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.

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