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  • Arrival of Pandemonium

    Stout trees stand side by side;

    there are three;

    unbridled branches;

    robust and stoic.

    With murmured rustling,

    leaves topple; flutter.

    They mantle delicate grasses

    and lay like a vibrant carpet

    threaded with flamed silks of scarlet and fiery auburn;

    a creation of a Master weaver.

    Cupping this calm in sturdy hands,

    a wall of stone;

    boulders really.

    It lay stretched out behind the trees;

    a vast sentinel decades old.

    The choking stench of stogie…

    the knock-back of a brown paper bag

    where young whiskey cowers;

    this rowdy bluster comes from nowhere;

    it stomps in to bust-up the stillness.

    Pilfering and plundering;

    it pounds, it pummels.

    Strapped over a brawny shoulder,

    the weapon…

    the handle gripped with unwaivered force,

    the power cord yanked…

    it roars to life spitting out turbulence;

    the carpet whimpers.

    The first strike screams;

    colors heave... and burst...

    they collide...they spill...

    the stogie smothers;

    the whiskey pounds;

    Shrieks and howls thrash about.

    The cup of calm broken;

    it falls through the cracks.

    Rustling is silenced…

    the carpet lay in shreds...

    the wall weeps.

    Pamela Wilonski

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