He is but a lonely silhouette; a pathetic outline of what he used to be.
Foggy is his dammned appearance, his weight as light as the cursed wind.
Yet his burden is as large as this treacherous globe.
He roams the lands day and night, following the flow of the breeze that carries him.
He lost his purpose long ago, and now he is but a fucking empty and ever so hollow shadow.
He who finds no pleasure in the dispicable beauty of the landscape, is he who has lost all color in sight.
The flowers that bloom, the leaves that dance, the rivers that flow and the birds that chirp. All this he curses and yet he silently yearns.
He yearns for everything he does not know. To feel, to live, to be full and to be alive. He longs to know what it's like to have a meaning in this merciless game of life.
What it's like to walk past dozen of his kind and to be greeted with warmth and affection. For the voice of another to sing a llulaby in his ear.
A song so warm that would ease his curse and bring tears to his waterless eyes. Peace to his soulless outline.
To know the feel of caressing the soft skin of and angel and to be able to see with a humble light.
To know the feeling of rhythm in every step he would take and dance cheerfully amongst his kin.
To be able to return to the place he rests and call it home, because it'll give him a haven to feel safe and secure.
Yet he cursed and trapped in his thoughtless mind of endless sorrow.
Where every pitiful step he takes is cold under his soles, yet he doesn't feel more than a piercing pain in his dead but beating heart.
When even the sky has become another burden, for he can no longer reach it nor in dreams.
He can neither dream in day or night, for his demons make him restless.
He has become lost in an abyss of shadows that mock his very existence.
Every breath he takes is nonexistent, for all trace of meaningful desire have expired.
Who he is, is not known for he too has perished in soul and has long been forgotten.
Yet he may be called a demon, for he is a burden to many.
That is something else he has to carry.
He cannot help it, for his well-intentioned touch sets flame to what it comes upon.
He has learned to keep to himself, for worry of others will add to his numbed pain.
He is heartless by product, not by choice. And though he has tried to make amends, his balance will never balanced.
So he continues his way into the nothingness of his abyss.
