Toiling

Fingers worked to the bone, to dust. A stretched out arm divided, equally separated, neatly. Forced to commiserate, yet, never mourn. Harrowing footsteps on a path snubbed out by lightning strikes, never in the same place twice. All culminating into the visceral image of a man shattered, glass shards of equal distribution across a plane of strife.

The greatest enemy, those inner demons. Marching lockstep toward the infinite black of the mind. Never-ending armies of turmoil created by the same, motivated by the same. Dreams of happenstance and matters unrelated. Dreams of people thought of as friends. Still here locked away in a dungeon by choice, by name, unable to reach out. Dreams carried beneath the wings of wistlessness, undistracted by the horde, as a reminder to be.

Back and forth as a pendulum swings. It seems unending, relentless. The constant repetitive nature of the measurement of existence. The count grows higher, the ladder longer, the battle harder. Fight while it is still possible. Fight with fervent rage.

Take the step headlong into the abyss of the unknown. Change the course with every motion. Break the chains that restrict the motion and bind the pendulum. Express beyond the gleeful extreme, that ever increasing bar of pleasantries defined by what is seen, into reality. Struggle.

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