Lines

Trio

"Not without me."

His pa was strict, refused to budge on the woods.

"But dad, I swear I hears some fancy things out there!"

"Not without me. Please, boy, ain't no place for you alone."

"How do you know pa?"

"I know."

And yet the worms nestled into the boy's mind mind. He was restless and lost to the ennui.

He crept across the minefield of wooden boards.

The dead of night swallowed all noise save his own.

Mustn't step wrong lest the beast beyond the far door awaken.

The patriarchal abomination.

Ne'er a greater rage to be found than a father disobeyed.

Nor a greater passion formed than in the denied search of the curious.

And so the two heads met, and the son prevailed.

He would sneak through that minefield so,

A swiftness 'gainst his booted sole.

And into the darkness of the woods he dove.

Atop the moon's crest did pa stir.

He knew it at once - he ran to the now empty bed.

And flew himself to the woods.

"Jack!" he did bellow.

"Jack!" he did call.

But no answer met the brush.

He ran and he ran, the mud splashing against his legs.

Finally he heard the whispers,

And to a halt he slid to listen.

"What ever for?"

"I ain't s'posed to say."

"Says who?"

"Says pa"

"He ain't here now, so what're we gonna do?"

"Wait d'you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

The boys turned in unison.

He could see it in their eyes, he could see it in their hair.

There were three, but they were once one.

They had separated, his boy was now several.

He knew what he must do, a tremble in his gait.

It was too dark for them to share his vision, they squinted and stuttered,

"Who goes there?"

The silhouette shifted closer, and then a flash stole their vision briefly.

The thunder of the shot brought them to reality.

They hardly heard the crack as the leftmost boy lay broken.

Life spilled out of him, gone as quickly as the marauding light.

The silhouette cocked the rifle for another, but the other two together charged.

They brought down the shadow hastily.

They wrestled, fumbling in the shadows.

One of the boys grabbed hold of the larger man's head.

With a snap it finally was still.

Like the trees and the murdered boy now caked in cold blood.

The gentlest breeze need not tarry here, yet still it gusted

As the boys gazed upon patricide.

They saw those eyes locked with horror, eyes that stared into his boy now two.

His soul swallowed into terrible void.

And so the duo did leave that sunken place.

A forgotten knoll it became.

And added to the woods anew.

More stories for another pa to tell another boy.

And for that boy to in turn wonder and accrue ennui.

As for the boys with blood on their hands,

They ran to the city down South.

At first they held hands.

Scared to separate for good.

But they knew they must unless fate undoes their mistake.

So they did finally release.

And set their now separate sails.

Years drifted by like a blanket against gravel.

But in the crowds thereafter they relent,

"Was that him?"

"Was that him?"

"Couldn't be, my hair ain't like that."

But the thought would linger.

Perhaps it was.

Perhaps he could live a whole life different.

A whole soul shared.

A whole body severed.

Might he be the same?

Or could he deviate?

And thus in the mirror they look.

To wonder if it's truly reflection.

Or if it's the other.

Do the eyes looking back in that silver,

Do they match like before?

Do they share the same body?

Do they share the same breast?

Do they share the same soul?

Can he ever be sure it's not truly the third?

And that who he believes himself to be died in that brush?

Was he the patriarch? Was he the original boy?

Will he ever know?

Should he?