The Lake

Cuts and scars became the expected reflection, even stone can be shaped. His work, a fruitless tree called Alla ævi ever growing in a land of the harshest conditions. Useful only as a crow's perch. The failure to find the answer was anguish. His journey thus far had taught him so much, he knew all about the silhouette and all about the detail but his eternal failure to see them as one fuelled the self hatred that stole his confidence. He was at the apex, the hottest point in the crucible. He thought about purpose and found none. He wanted to release the wolves and be devoured. He thought about the costs and the significance of his drive and again his foot took a step.

A struggler alone, phasing in and out of an other's company. He considered every step yet in contrast, the words of the songs that he heard as he passed through chirping birds, angered him at their emptiness. In every mouthful he ate, a wasp's sting. He hated the sound of his footfall, he hated the feeling of the his foot's ball touching the ground. He hated the hand that gripped his heart every time he closed his eyes and he hated that he could not stop it. Freedom was not his.

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