The man was coming and going. While traveling on winding roads he filled the quiet spaces with silent dreams of the life ahead. In his optimism he saw glory, but pressing on through fears of never being good enough, he found solace in the comfort of himself on this journey.
“Reality asserts itself on those who do not recognize life’s patterns.”
When the mob finally burst through the door, the contents of my bowels poured onto the floor. The stench of hate rushed in as quickly as my father’s brains scattered across the wall. They took turns inside of me, until the little light of mine could shine no longer.
My heart danced violently inside my chest as I pulled up to strobe light hues of blue. Frantically searching for answers to forgotten questions I found him, limp from the 78 bullets that extinguished his premature luminance. I cried out, but guilty hands offer no protection and served me evil stares.
Having narrowly escaped death, he surveyed the landscape from the canyon cliff. Defeated bodies covered in dust and redemption littered the path from which he came.
With his freedom won, he turned from bondage and set his eyes on “The Hills of Rushing Gold,” which soon will be his home.