Empty he stands.
Palms faced downwards, his head in anguish and pain beholds the tainted grey pillows of the skies.
The skin of an infant’s feet; as he treads his skin daily pierced by the shards of glass that pervade it.
Bellows of bitter agony, Suffering defeat.
That the heavens may again be renewed to their palpable flavour.
Like child lost from mother; the crooning bird caged.
Precariously perched on mountaintops, surveying foreign cities with no beginning neither end.
Dazed and confused; leaving Hope dashed and battered at Fate’s door.
Studying the celestial sphere pursuing a Creator.
What manner of life would impart his children to misery?
Resignedly he sits, more abashed and perturbed then he began.