Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Wither Like the Grass
One thin man climbs the hill, slipping and sliding as he steps on boulders, grunting as his body hits the ground once again. With the last of his strength, he crawls to the top, and stands staring into the black depths of the water so far below him.
As he falls through the air, a sunbeam bounces off the sea below, and makes a halo around his smooth head, and his wrinkled face. He calls out, in one last fleeting, flying prayer, the soulless roar of a man who earned and fought, but never lived. The hollow cry of a creature who abstained from love.