Echoes

The echoes of pain scream in the murmuring woods of forlornness. Shouting out and expecting the recurring sound to be a semblance of elf words. But instead what hurls back are reminiscence like insane profanity. Dreams refracted through prism of reality and strewn into multitude of oblivion.  Words; like bullets, either kills or wounds. When it kills, it kills the soul. When it wounds, wounds heal. But the scars remain.

A limping desolate soul tries to pickup momentum. But the devil past will not concede. Fire of desire engulfs the mind and the cognizance burn into ghastly spiraling smoke. A depleted warrior ponders over his squandered chances. The impoverished prodigal has no mast to brace his soul. His only weapon is hope. Hope is his only hope. His lungs belch out anger and anguish that gives wings to his screams, only to collide with the mountainous reality. It is hurled back to him and fans the fire that engulfed his mind. He loves the way it hurts.

He begins to climb the mountain to reach its top and scream again.