speaking to some, offering a hand to all
it was translucent, but nevertheless darkly-toned
his palm closed and then opened again
leaving glimpses of the middle mark
it was a rich purple, slightly yellow along its edge
the color seemed to differ each time he came
the last time green
and before that--white
the first day it had been white
no one knew why he came that day
it was near dusk
a street engulfed by the setting sun
men, women, and children moved toward unknown destinations, faces blinded or necks roasted
maybe he knew where they were going, I don't know
he stood, stationary amongst the swirling crowds
he lifted his hands, touching the sky
he raised his voice, bellowing words into the sky
> the time is nigh, the time is nigh
he said that several more times, then lowered his hands
then he spoke again, words I did not understand
the swirl slowed
the men, women, and children looked at him
a shadow cast by a nearby well crept toward him
he lifted his left hand, extending it toward the well
it continued, faster now
he lowered his hand as the darkness covered him
the swirl began, but with a convergent tinge
they reached for him, twisting and writhing and slipping
they hit him with their hands
they did this many times, more than I could count
I could no longer see his face, he was covered by the men, women, and children between us
I saw only his open hands, touching the sky, with marks that gleamed a milk white
There are some things that are better left without explanation. Sometimes a person's just got to accept things. Once a story's told, there's nothing left to build.
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