The Aftermath Begins

He had waited, though he was no patient man, the winter storms gave way to early Spring, a silly hare regarded him watched his descent into the town that righteously was nestled at the foot of granite boulders and dead gravel's chaff. He had to face the clowns once allies with their merchant's grins it seemed they'd stepped, mid afternoon had come, outside to watch their son, who'd chosen war, against his own and all of decency forfeitted all, a rightful place though tied to strings within the fold, and not a single hand would ever rise to greet him, there was scorn, a clan rebuffed dismissed as if the plague had come to take possession of good taste and manners holding up the sky which would have fallen in of that they were so sure and folks now gathered at the baker's den to shoot the breeze if not the messenger which was against the rules, oh they detested him, all empathy had gone when words could not dissuade and he stood tall to take her hand, and brought it to his lips to have her fingers slip inside his mouth, it was a sign, a symbol so the baker said of decadence brought on by lust and sheer insanity that had befallen one whose council once was heard throughout the region and whose voice, subdued would calm the boys and those whose paths led near the southern tracks where lepers lived in poverty, by God's will, and shunned by decent man. He would not bow not dip his head, nor would he halt his steps to greet the past, they dared not spit though he could see white flecks of spittle on their chins, there were loud calls to get the carpenter an able man, to make a hasty cross, but he walked on, a melancholy smile seemed frozen on his stoic face. And all just stared as he crossed over and was lost in morning's dew at the horizon near the summit's stars. There was no sound for those who stood, still near the bakery, and not a single soul would talk or mention HER, due to selective blindness they'd not seen that they were two, perhaps they did, for they were one.