Word Tree. Picture

The dry dusty road seemed endless. Uphill like Sisyphus day in and day out. Poetry and mythology came out in gasps as day old coffee trickled down my hands, from a white knuckled cup. Is this the price of high school romance? 3 text books and a filtered cigarette? I reproached the same dirt with the same vigor as always. The same steps in the same dry dust under the trees. Calling out in a drunkard’s voice with a hint of accent a man spoke. Oblivious to my future, forgetting my desires, and drowning in my own self misery I ignore it. “Come here” he blurts out words like vomit. Taken aback I stop. The dust spreads around my feet, a few steps away lays destiny. My small musty house with apocalyptic fairy tales and mice filled walls. A large dog stands near. I glance. “Don’t be afraid.” he slurred. I analyze his life, trying to piece who he is. Who I am. Butterflies scattered off his tongue with moonshine and nicotine. Smoke stood between us. “Don’t be afraid.” the death of Sisyphus lies in my hands. I stare at my stranger, my butterfly man. With whiskey lips and aging eyes. Once a lover, dreamer, and heretic but retired as a god. Testing my courage he demands. Soft fur in my milk white hands. . I continue to walk past the flowers. Almost a run. Don’t be afraid.
Continue Reading: Ages of Man