It Was Not the Echoes

The cruelest trick the goblins
Played wasn’t rheumatism
Resulting from many kicks

From feet that left no footprints
To the sexton’s back and head,
Nor was it making him feel

Compelled to wander and earn
A living where repentance
Wouldn’t be scoffed at as false—

It was making him believe
The world was respectable
And decent, filled with people

Who knew their roles, played their parts,
And accepted death calmly.
They kicked the hell out of him

That night, and left him for dead
In the frost, an altered man
Indeed. He was contented,

Ragged, and bereft of old
Consolations, all at once.
They made him ordinary.