Desolate

"Aut viam inveniam aut faciam."

The words spilled out of his mouth like a whispered prayer,
Ink etched into his flesh,
Stingy,
Almost as lancing as the raging flames within him,
Scorching his insides,
He would either find a way or forge one.

The word is: haunted.

Not by ghosts.

By a maybe.

By the soft echo of a woman who once lit his path out of darkness.

A woman who no longer remembers his name...
But who still lives inside every choice he makes.

He was not made to follow the rules.
He was made to make them.

Where a match may light a room,
A flame like him sets the system ablaze.

In this story,
Truth wears a mask,
and order is just chaos in disguise.

His world, at last, reveals its true face,
when he sets it on fire.