My fingers need to move. They need to stroke these tears since they can no longer stroke your face. Skin peeled off. Face car type. This is the love of kings who fail to see the treachery of a hurt worn down. Like many a peasant who resisted the urge of power, I lay here devoured. Consumed with the memory of the light. Darkness my tomb. I lay silent and still with hopes of ever being more than I am. Believing the power to believe is overrated. Meditate on that.

Sadness creeps through. I was once a man laid atop a castle in the highest mountain and I saw the world from a downward view. I looked at the spiral of mankind and saw it whisper movement is the key. But I stood still, just watching. Gathering intel on a life I’d never live just so I could understand the motives of someone other than myself.

Then one day the bar blew away and I found myself free able to move amongst the men and so I fell. Landing on my knees, I paid no attention to the scars. Or the pain. Or the loss. Just the fact that the loneliness was blown away with the bars. Unable to stand I was still fortunate enough to understand the movement.

So here I lie. My ego nonexistent. Looking up to a view that made me who I am from the beaten path that molds who I can become.

A maiden wipes my face, dripping with tears, and I thank her softly. Nothing is concrete. I kneel beside the mat I call home and I repeat. Nothing is concrete.

So here I lie.

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