I Can See Them There

They are there, sitting.
On the stairs, under the bare trees, in front of the house.
The door is behind them and they are waiting.

(They sit and from where i stand now years in the future, i pity them.)

The news is boiling in them, fermenting like an evil brew.
It has sharp jagged points dripping tears and screaming pain but
 I don't think they really feel it.
Still they wait, time stretching and contracting.
This is the old world still.
The sun is bright but not warm.
The sky is blue and vacant, cold.

Finally the arrival of those whom the news is meant for.
The news! The new!
With each mouth opening and speaking, a new world is created.

Standing senseless and abstracted they move.
Toward the door, toward the new.

And then the words come leaving behind the trees and the sky and steps, all of which existed in the time before those words were spoken,

and now everything has changed.

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