Soul Sick

There was a sickness in that man.
Not the kind any doctor or pills could fix.
Oh no.
This was the kind of sickness affixed
to his soul.
Like a devil’s hound digging up bones,
it would show itself briefly,
between the shadows.
Between the bellows of a hellfire
lay a quagmire of hopeful paladin clothing,
twisted and moaning,
draped over a frame of mind
he could not contain. 
He longed for a wash,
a full-gutted cleaning
to escape the reaping
his sickness seemed to rain.
Running through the crow fields;
searching for a mother to bring
his children home,
he became the devil’s hound
digging up bones for another
mother’s babies to choke down.

There was a sickness in that man.