From the mouths of gargoyles
As she curls her tongue around an emptying darkness
Falling rain runs like rivers from those mouths above
Those gargoyles perched on old weathered rooftops
To drench her as she sits waiting on a low wall beneath one
Her limp hair covers all but thin slithers to a single eye’s sight
Except when a gust of wind blasts her hair back horizontal
To reveal both eyes watching her hands hold a not quite
A not quite empty glass bottle of some age and imperfect colour
It’s contents, a rolled, scroll, perhaps a print or a faded photograph
Visibly cracked though still entirely in tact, it seems to stare back
Several lightening bolts strike upon a field some distance in front
As a broken tile slips, crashes, tumbling down through, rushing
From the gargoyles mouth, smashing, slamming into her skull
Blood streams down the side of her face as she shakes off the impact
Still the bottle rests in her hands, she leans back washing her face
To then remove the cork from the bottle for only a second since
It’s been in her possession, to reveal a monochromatic photograph
A young woman, and turning it over, on the back these words
“Help me. Help me. I am here.” With an address revealing this
A weather torn location, some 155 years, many years too late
To be sitting now in front to an aging monolith of a blackened ruin
Where still rants, rages a tempest in remembrance to foul play and life taken
So from the mouths of gargoyles, runneth today one more tale to mark history
As her tears fall upon to run down through each crack in the wet fading photograph.
Great!
Cheers!
A very intriguing story within these lines.
Occasionally it happens.