Culling the Fold
#2 of Scribbles
A narrative poem, or a prose poem, or a meditation on the end.
Culling the Fold
And God looked down upon the face of the world which they had created so long ago. In their absence it had changed, and yea, it displeased them greatly. No longer were the people kind or hopeful or honorable. God touched theirself with their endless hands and became sadness, flowing inward outward and heavenly. Sadness descended upon the world and became the balm of the people. For God could not bear to be a burden to their existence, nor could God bear to let them live in misery. Chill winds blew from the distant North and spread across the world; in the bones of the people there grew a vicious chill. God let it take them even as they took themselves. No fire today, no smoke, no brimstone. Into the gentle fold they are culled, and the guide which leads them is their own hand. They are not bad, though they are not good. They are mistaken and misplaced hope--without hope what is there? God became hope and fell like a damp rain, but the face of the world was dry. Those people were too far gone, too far going, too far vanished. The lights dim around them slowly. They will not be flooded nor will they be plagued. They will endure their dark corner a few years or lifetimes longer, and they will welcome the sorrow, welcome the rage. One by one they fall, prey to their own vice, to drink and pill and bullet and blade. Like droplets disappearing in dust they will be. When the last of the people still cling to the world they will succumb to their own age, like the people of a thousand generations past. Until then let them do the job themselves, slipping into that oblivion soul by endless soul.