Devoid of Facts

by Ember

When he looked back, 

a gale pushed all the heavy curtains away; 

beams of light threw themselves into the vacant space. 

Gleaming particles of dust.

To think that we could ever obtain freedom,

as if one day Time would release us

from its chains and fetters,

letting us run,

swiftly and wildly,

like the dog that chases the boomerang,

only finding ourselves

rushed back to where we started.

There is always a “tomorrow,”

one that sprawls beyond the itching expiration date.

Night wind sharpens its blade

with the limbs of towering trees.

No enemies to swallow its slash,

or spill blood with massive scars.

Is there anyone to hear the silent rage?

Rage against the smothered,

snowy feathers of a crow.