Romp

I have the tools now. The ants had flooded my tribe, but now they are gone. It is a surplus of space that an elongation of time follows. Nipping at the heels of a loneliness, stoicism and explosions of rage act like a rash mutt. They serve to curse a man. Shoo, shoo I called to the beasts rampaging in my town. It wasn’t without a profit that I tore their disease away with a sick blade of betrayal. Does it turn a man’s heart and soul to take away that which he one loved? I couldn’t bear to feel this way for long, so I forgot them. Their memories swim through the village like eager ghosts, but I can tell their influence is evanescent.

The romping days of yore still pang me in dreams unfitted for a king. In my mind they still bring me to my knees, my crown being nothing but a buffet for sense to seep into my mind. They wish to come back, I’m the man on his knees yet they’re the beggars. I acquiesce. The grand retrieval. The opening of eyes erases thoughts that leave an ember of sadness in one’s heart. This pile. This pile of gold is nothing. It hasn’t moved since it’s collection ended. Mounds of dust and fear mount, just as the incipient loneliness inundates my senses, leaving me catatonic in a tangled massacre of lies and lackluster neediness.