Messenger

A veil of shadow and flaming grass
falls.
My heart, lost in splatters
of black and of red?
Mysterious sorrow.
The messenger says:
The oxen were plowing...
your children were feasting...
they are dead,
I alone have escaped
to tell you.

My skin, torn back until nothing remains
between me and the shadows?

Neurons and brain waves.

Or have I been opened to pain
not my own?
Does the messenger speak,
not of me
but to me.
All is well here, but somewhere
a messenger says:
I alone have escaped...
And the veil falls.