Wise Owl

Tue, 07/29/2014 - 15:02 -- Chapman


Steps echo

Across concrete rough as sand.

Cries pound through air cold as ice.

I search for the source,

In darkness it lies. 


Entering the bleak alley, 

I am silence among mayhem.

Viewing three others, remaining hidden.

As a wary owl scans the dreary field,

I absorb the ghastly sight.


As I lie in wait,

I fear not the demons

Towering over the lone soul,

For they are the mice and

I am the owl.


As I lie in wait,

I hear words of hatred and spite.

I see iron fists bound tight.  

I hear words of 'faggot' and 'dike.'

Hammer against anvil, 

The fists rain down.


As I lie in wait,

My watchful eyes catch

Those tear-stricken upon the floor. 

They speak of pain and sorrow.

They beg for mercy and a better tomorrow.

The flint is struck, the flame catches,

An ember that burns close to heart.


I shall not extinguish this fire.

Heat rising, blood fit to boil,

Pushing the once wary owl into turmoil.

Among silence I am no longer.

Words like talons, I slash down to bone.

The blood of mice fills my hunger.  


They gaze on, expression blank.

Struck down with shame, limping away. 

Flame cools, the ember extinguished.


Victorious I am, but I feel no bliss.

Surreal clouds tell of something amiss.


I Blink. Steps echo across concrete.

I Blink. Cries pound through the air.

Awakened from dreams of justice, 

Looking again down the bleak alley,

The gasping pain within now causing

Trembles of fear.


I turn.


I turn and walk on.

Cries of pain now

Falling on deaf ears,

I walk on.


Better to

Not interfere.

I walk on, 


For I am society.


I am the wise owl.


Watching always,

Acting rarely.


Guide that inspired this poem: 


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