The Metamorphosis Of Water Poem by Dylan Dowrick

One. Two. I can count the madness grow as the number of people do. I can feel it. The once small group of people has now canvassed into a round, crazed mob anticipating something beyond me.

I can feel it. My mind is growing, my chest: expanding. My heart grows restless, yet I don't know why and I cannot see. I can feel it. I start to chant with the crowd; not physically, but mentally. Their minds are racing, considering the possibilities; communicating, exchanging the scenarios with each other.

I can feel it. We push forward, physically this time as my people are urging me forward. We move increasingly faster, but even still, more swiftly. The anticipation growing, my heart rate, my chest, my expectations rise and fall without benevolence of soul.

I can feel it! The sounds and the noises rush all around me. I'm stricken with fear, for I still haven't a clue of what is going on. I can turn and see a taller man hold his breath.; he stares intently. And as sure as daylight the noise evaporates from the very air I breath; the crowd shutters.

I can tell something has happened. I am confused to what has happened, but the crowd passes by me. I can see now... The people, they flock around a girl. A young girl, maybe once and a half mine own, lie heaving, scared. A man, burly and pale of skin strikes the girl with his dagger-soul obviously piercing her within. She lie motionless.

Now enclosed within his sheath, the man runs. The man was wearing a tuxedo with a purple pocket square and matching hat, the girl: a dress. He may have been her father. She may have been his date. They might have been strangers... Or they were to me at least. He was stripped naked by the once civilized, herded townspeople and tied to a wall.

The people whip him, a lash each. The powdered faces of the women and children are wiped clean by anxiety as they throw rocks at the man.

Days of torture continued, only less severe, more practiced; crime forgotten, hate resilient. No one spoke to the man, no one looked as they felt their shame. The man lie dead of a broken heart.

I feel a sickness, not of heart, but of soul. I feel disgusting, an indispensable need to wash myself. I turn, walk, and walk, and walk. Inheriting the leftover years of the maiden who so gracefully died. I feel atrocious, nauseous, unforgivable, but all I can do is walk.

I was too late, too indecisive.
I FELT it.... I felt the beast, and his daughter-date-stranger, and I loved her.