Simplicity struck like a clean cut sever when the barren found my door.

It seemed reasonable at first to steady my suspicion. Saddle the brute and hope the void capitulates. But if you do, you may never come to know what would happen if you simply settled. Tickled the curiosity And let it engulf you.

When the dark begins to seep in behind my eyes like a thick smoke bellowing up from a campfire I ask albeit internally, where does it want me to go. Who wants me to see this. But the answers never came. A dead line full of grey noise taunting me into a perilous search forlorn past the dead brooks the burning fields of flames like a symphony to the contorted mirages in my mind.

But when the dust settled I saw it. Infinitesimally small sparks spruck about in a divine pattern glossed in the sky in front of me. Cold winds illuminated the burning explosions crystallising an imagine. Dead sounds held up like a Crutch my eyes to the symphony as the empty had finally responded.

But what was there to say. I asked myself. As my skin began to float away like burned soot populating the air. My essence began to float above like a wayward bird escaping the evening sun. But my eyes stayed married to the performance in front. Unconcerned with the transformation taking place behind me. Underneath me. About me. I have to say. My patience had never once been tested as long since this moment. 

My breaths that were the collective gusts of wind had never found such heaviness. But underneath my skepticism and internal squint. It finally had found its ultimate form.

It was a glass window littered with antiquated marks. Punctuated with a glare from beyond. Slightly run down but too familiar to not grow weary. It whispered to me and captured my soul lispering enchantments and bolstering my hold but one last moment a chance to remove them my eyes from seeing what was beyond it a dead rose a wilted stem. It was me looking back. With an empty stare. Fires raged everywhere in the backdrop. And amongst it a familiar silhouette.

I considers pleading for the man to turn round. To offer up his flesh to save the silhouette. But I suppose I already knew he wouldn’t. The destruction seemed like oxygen. It seemed almost routine.

But what it meant still eludes me to this day. So one day I decided to do what anyone would. I decided to wrestle a tree. With my sleeves rolled up and my palms turned to claws I pushed and pulled wrangled and struck this unconcerned tree. And continued I did strangely until I became too knackered to stand. So climb up I did and nestled into the intricate weaving and closed my eyes for the final time. 

Sometimes I like to think she’d stroll by. The silhouette. Take an apple from the tree. Rest in its shade. And allow the light ruffle of the leaves to wash away the burns. Cleanse her of her dark memories. And set her on a trip in her mind so immaculate so invigorating that she’d shed be pulled back each time. Not for the sullied remains of my essence but simply melt there under the dying sun. As I did.