2006-02-20 - 10:00 a.m.
One
The mind asks funny things.
It wants to do right but easily submits.
Right does not always appear to be right. It adds to the humor.
It is dark. Too dark to be true. Too dark to be right.
A judge is never made to question justice delivered. The one who judges delivers the sentence, which washes the hands clean. The hands are dirtied then cleaned often. Judging from behind the enormous oak desk in the dark robe.
The robe absolves all as the dark robes him.
The seclusion of the closet is serene until the time comes and the dark walls begin to close in on him. The walls tell him the time is at hand and he never fights. Fighting is what spawned him and one must never question their creator.
The walls force him out of the claustrophobic closet.
The door roughly slides over the carpet.
The innocence of the child wafts into his nose. The smell of purity soon nauseates his empty stomach. Although sickened to his core, he still slithers into the child�s room. A miniscule room full of toys. The tiny part of the world stinking of youth.
He stands in the dark room. Some children have nightlights but this one was told to conquer all fears of the world.
This child was told there are no monsters in the closet.
He walks to the bed and the soft carpet blankets his quiet steps. He sits over the child and looks at the sleeping face. He sees freckles on the forehead, a mole on the cheek and a small nose that will never grow larger. He longs to touch the smooth cheek but only stares at it, for the time is not right. He runs his finger the length of the child�s small face but never caresses the soft skin.
It would have felt like silk to his coarse hands.
