I desperately ride,
turning back only to see
the shadow of the small chapel.
Not Him.
The pointed steeple
Pierces the midnight sky
while I nervously grasp my crucifix.
He is coming for me.
Frogs croak, seemingly calling after me
while the moonlight reveals a dark silhouette
which disappears on second glance.
The wind whips through bare branches,
hauntingly whispering my name.
I ride across the creaking bridge
only to hear the thump of footsteps behind me.
I turn.
No one is there.
Galloping through the pumpkin patch
I hear him again.
Crunch. Thump. Clunk.
I turn.
Fire and flame ignite the sky
as he rides towards me,
his sword unsheathed,
his blade glinting in the moonlight
And takes my head for his own.
Spirit,
Tell me tales.
Tales of glistening buildings in the sun,
And the comforting hum of cars speeding by.
Tell me of coffee stained sidewalks
And clicking heels accompanied by men with ties.
Tell me of children playing baseball on the street block,
Or the rustle of businessmen hurriedly ordering their morning coffee.
Spirit,
Explain to me the beauty of an empty building,
The hush of six o’clock.
Tell me of the sound of skates against the ice.
Tell me the rise from a puck clanging against the post
Or the sound of fans cheering for their team.
Tell me the sound of a ball gracefully passing through the net.
But don’t tell me
Why guns appear in the moonlight,
Or why it pours red rain
Spirit,
Don’t tell me of the violent riots
Or a limo driver’s empty drunken pain
Or why he killed those beloved men tonight.
Don’t tell me why dark skies reveal drunkards
Or why grown men fight.
Don’t tell me of drugs roaming the street.
Spirit of Detroit,
Just stick to telling me of the light
And watch over my city with strength.