The walk

There he stands,

Dull shadows engulfing him in their grasp,

Carving out his shape and lines,

Forming a sort of mangled triangle with the dry ground.

The clouds are late,

But enough to cast eclipse over him.

With every step follows the dread in the knowledge of the next one.

With every breath lies an urge to stop all universe.

But he cannot,

So he stops.

And sits.

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