The Scrivener

By Carla   

The scrivener asked,
"How many words must I write to save you?"
The flurry of legal documents flew out the window
As messages to God begging for an ever-so-slight pardon.
One that would reverberate in growing young men's throats
Trying out their verbal stances in the face of fear.
Looking down and moaning... please don't go.
And the skies opened,
And rain mixed with wind whipped through the trees
Leaving an echo of moans among the leaves
As the carriage drew away.

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Sometimes we just can't win.