Counting, With Mr. Jones


One Path fading into a blanket of dewy motionless fog,
Unmistakable odors from a nearby stagnate bog.
Two empty starving eyes staring through so many a backlit shadow,
Of a once plentiful forest, now cut into a barren meadow.
Three golden birds perched upon two extended limbs,
Harmonizing one perfect song, sounding more like a hymn.
Four leaves dance about the crisp autumn air,
Twisting and turning with little to care,
Landing so gently between his two naked feet,
He sat down for a spell listening for his heart beat.
Five fingers reach out for one last chance to repent,
Waiting for his heavenly Angel, but nothing was sent.
Six feet in front of him, he sees the penetrating sun,
Casting five separate shadows against his lonely one.
Seven in the morning, where has his time gone,
Six days ago he was happy, six days ago he was strong,
Eight years in his life, and all of them perfect,
Except for those six split seconds, that no one could predict,
Nine O’clock Sunday morning, eight minutes from church,
A two car accident, involving what I think was a birch.
Ten minutes until anybody arrived,
Which I guess was nine minutes too long, for her to stay alive.
His love, His wife and His daughter is gone.
No more Saturday mornings, playing in their front lawn.
Nine ten Sunday morning, empty spaces down his pew,
Two officers called him out, and right then He knew.
Eight seconds of silence, as his time stood so still,
His cheeks flushed with horror, two tears gently spill,
Seven minutes to return to those rouge painted streets,
He ran over to clutch his daughter, as one father now weeps.
Six days ago, He was giving thanks to one God,
Now there’s no church to console him, for his lord is a fraud.
Five prayers every day, once in all four directions,
Asking nothing more from his God, than his undying protection.
Four people were injured, the morning paper had read,
There were two seriously wounded, his wife and daughter pronounced dead.
Three hearts turned into one, a parent’s worst nightmare,
His mind left his body, leaving nothing for another prayer.
Two people distracted in one split second of time,
Left one father alone in a forest, to commit a selfless crime.
One bullet remained within the darkness of his Father’s old gun,
He once had a loving family, he was once a Christian,
One God had deserted him, in one too many instances of his life,
This God stole his daughter, this God stole his wife.
One empty shot echoed amongst the brown deadened leaves,
As this father fell silent, and his life trickled down his sleeve.
One bullet was etched so neatly, as to confide,
“To My Daughter, To My Love, We Shall Meet On The Other Side.”
Three souls no longer dance amidst the shadows of our earth,
One car and one bullet, Eight years since her birth.
No more pain is ever felt, no more blood rushed through his heart,
No Daddy, No Mommy, and no more Little Sweetheart.
Nothing left for his God to tarnish with pain,
Only empty shells where their true love once reigned.
No God showed up, in his most dire of moments,
He had no time to offer this father his guidance.
And so he proved to the world that every man was a God,
Except there was no one to witness, only silent applause.
Three weeks later this hunter found some bones,
Of a man no one missed, a middle aged father and husband, known only as Mr.
Jones.

 
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