Writing Back Words
He took it as far as he could, still morning air, dolour leaves, cheery picked tomb side, green to grey, hills disappearing in the mist and still, further, the sea still, lapping incessant, incandescent.
His mark or marker, if you will, puzzled the walking masses, forward to the city, always forward to the city, trees gently growing from cracks, unspeakable, head first into each new day, his timing was impeccable.
Up with the sun or nearly, time he thought, pondered mostly, but came to an understanding, he was to leave in due course for lands beyond, reckoning or reasoning, he left that to others, sticking to the sidewalk whenever he could.
Rooftops provided the best view, but he was still reeling from the shock of a morning that never fully mourned, born of sweat, the truth had so far eluded, so far, he thought and still nowhere.
He was convinced it wasn’t enough, riding the rails, further still, gathered, tired eyes no longer burning...manic joy followed by the abyss.
He felt certain, which was rare...