Ben Hill

Dual

Formalities....
Politics aside.
Well dressed, Hat straight....
Weapons polished, instruments alone,
Not murder, honor's defense
Surely both are right.
Shady Grove.
Death awaits one
Ruin the other
A martyr is one
Infamy claims the other
Back to back, Weapons ready
Silver moon, Night heavy
Steps are taken, tables turned
Barrels flash, skin is torn
Death stands, legend born.

The Unnamed Flower

It haunts me, but I welcome it's prescence. It is something that I am truly in love with, and I hope that it never escapes me. It is a flower, a flower that I have never seen, nor have I held it in my hands. Its smell is attached to me; it has bonded itself to my consiousness. When I hurt, I go to it, and for a few minutes all is well and peaceful. But then the yearning comes, the long, mournful desire to hold and to touch. The desire to experience. The desire to know. It lays siege to my thoughts and numbs all senses except that of smell and the memories that it conjures up. It belongs to her. She sends it to me in a letter. It is not a real flower, only a synthetic scent. But I do not identify it with a flower of organic form. No, it is her scent, the scent that best describes her. It describes her personality, her love for her Lord. It is her scent, for it tells her story. And I love that scent.

Copyright Ben Hill 2001. All rights reserved.