As the century wore a new face and put on a different dress, no less motley than the last,
A lonely boy between the sticks carried his bag of tricks and looked behind him, holding fast.
Soon the walls grew tall around him and boys became men in a world of unforgiving passion,
And the trees grew ever thicker, chiaroscuro dancing on his face in muted purple fashion.
He sang in his sleep and journeyed to faraway lands, living life unbounded by religiose hands,
Free from culling commands that ruled his youthful mind in a shackled mores of cultic brand.
But the soaring freedom turned to flightless birds once daylight shone upon the wastelands.
As the boy soon grew into a man, he lost his tricks to the gentle winds of echoing melancholy.
The man now in his shoes walked miles apace and only ever stared ahead, head hung lowly,
Guided by the holy and divine in want of paradise, but lies upon the lies of sinners in disguise.
Many nights forsaken for the barren skies and moonless darkness of manly devices in reprise,
Till the damning quelling of inherent passions broke a thread and then undid the stitches fast.
Blood broke free and guts spilled forth in newfound fervour for the sweetness of the many fruits
And the newmade man in glee dove into the deep end of this new plane without moral pursuits.
Burning streams and broken organs, however, quickly found him lying lonely on salty terrain.
He spent daylight hours building fortresses in the clouds and nights to tear them down again,
And again, and again until his arms refused to rise above his head to clear the motley stains.
Then one day thunder struck and lightning shook the man awake, fires burning once again within,
But the fire quickly grew beyond control, antithetical to all that came before and all that was now,
And it consumed all within the reach of the red apocalyptic tongues of rage, kin and foe alike.
Then the clam winds from the west blew cool gentle kisses on the heated cheeks of the man
Who, confused and unbelieving, tried to run from the rare and mindful grace of the universe.
But how far could he go when one such as him, blinded by the darkness of deluded fury, run
With flailing arms and heedless of the vast nothingness in all directions in that state of mind?
So, the winds caught up to him and unbounded cursed shackles from his chafing wrists that he,
In heartbroken madness, wore willingly with the false presumption that his worth was but it.
The leaves took their time to fall, the clouds waited a while to open up, the waters did not harden,
And the snow caps delayed the revelation of the rocks beneath all the white, but in time, as always,
Life begins anew.
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