The Stone Institute

And Those Who Are Right, Grieve More

And Those Who Are Right, Grieve More

The Death Watchman calls.
He is not Specific about the Time of Transition.
His voice is Subtle, Soft but Piercing and True.
Not Everyone is Conscious of his Tone.
He Stands Naked in the Shadows of Life.
Singing Songs of his Ancestors.
A Deep Distant Timbre that only the Dying
And Those who Share their Death can Hear.
Each Fearful Person is Deaf to His Message.
They Shutter in Disbelief.

Family Members Stir as Some of them Saddle and Mount Their Vultures.
They Take to the Skies. Fly High in the Heavens.
A Duty Consecrated by Their Personal God.
Dignity is Their Battle Cry.
They see Themselves as mere Humble Servants
To the Army of Righteousness.
These Family Foot Soldiers do not Care for Those
Who are Amassing Profound Sorrow.

As the Death Watchman's Voice grows Louder,
Chaos Seeds in the Hearts of the Caring Humble.
Only Those who have Journeyed Beyond the Living
Can Truly See the Light.
The Battle begins Between Those who are Right
And Those who fight For Their Personal Self-Righteousness.

The Dying are Powerless to Speak.
They Must Listen to the Living.
They are Dependent upon Their Emissary
To Do the Right Thing.
They Cannot Hold their Head Up High.
They are Too Weak.
They Cannot Dry Their Tears
For Opportunities Missed or Squandered.
They Cannot See their Life Well Spent,
As They Take their Last Dying Breath.
They Feel Alone in A Tunnel of Darkness.

They are too Weak to Shoot Down
Those Vulture Riders who Circle Their Carcass.

Through the Morass of the Confusion,
The Dying Yearn for the Consciousness of the Sacred.
Where the Light is Powerful and Pure.
Death Always Occurs on Holy Ground.
Those who Claim Righteousness Cannot
Violate This Divine Space.
The Swift Golden Chariot of Death Arrives.

The Masks of Vulture Rider's Burn from Their Faces,
As They Try to Control The Road to the Afterlife.
They Sense a Greater Fear of their Own Mortality.
Their Image of Hell Expands, Overwhelming Them.
Their Greed for What Remains Consumes Them,
And the Death Watchman Leaves for Another Earthly Being.

As the Fire of Grief Burns Down each Individual's Image of What was Once Living,
The Soul is released from Its Mortal Bonds.
The Army of the Righteous Dismounts from Their Vultures.
They Return their Winged Scavengers to Roost
Deep within Their Walls of Religion.
Those who are Right, Mourn.
Those who are Righteous, Look for Slivers of Hope.

A Hope that One Day They will be Heard.
A Hope that One Day Their Commands will be Followed.
A Hope that Another will Fall Soon,
So They can Satisfy Their Deeply Rooted, Intense Craving
To Control the Death Watchman's Call.
And Receive Their Rightful Bounty for the Work of Their God.

And Those who are Right, Grieve More.

Kevin S. "Kiki" Merigian ©July 2015
Posted by Kevin Merigian at 9:38 AM
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