To touch is to love, to love is to live
Is this, perchance, where my dilemma lies?
If one cannot touch, one cannot love
And if one cannot love, one cannot truly live
That emptiness that ravages my soul
The bleakness that rends all my happiness
The overbearing sense of lack and loss
Is it this flaw of mine that is to blame?
It's not as though I'm neglected
For I'm surrounded by affection day in and day out
And yet, despite this sea of platonic and familial love
I freeze up, flinch, at the slightest touch
Could it be that this single problem is the cause
Of so many others that afflict my life
Maybe it is...
Maybe it isn't...
May
I walk along the edge of the road in silence
None walks alongside me, for I am alone
No family, no friends, no loved ones
To share my lonely path or heavy burden
Oh, how I love the open road
The wind making my hair billow behind me
The sun warming my face with its gentle light
The coolness of the rain after a long drought
And the stout earth standing firm beneath my feet
Here, none shall hate or fear me
Because of that which I can see
Death, destruction, turmoil
All these things I have seen in my dreams
Some call me a prophet
Others call me a monster
I've been told all oracles experience such
But is that supposed to make the t
Snow crunches underfoot as I weave through the alleyways. Snow is falling lightly from above-it's winter, and the holiday season if I remember correctly. People will be out and about this day, despite the weather, so I will have to be even more cautious than normal not to be seen.
My quarry has passed through here, not more than an hour ago. The scent of burning stone still lingers on the air. To my nose, it is completely separate from the stench of cigarettes and the small fires the homeless have lit using paper waste for the purpose of keeping warm. None of the shady-looking thugs I pass can tell the difference, but they have mere mortal
I am silence.
I am invisibility.
I am precision.
I am gracefulness.
Quiet is the forest in the morning, the sun still concealed beyond the ever-distant horizon. The morning mists blanket the land, and the monotonous veil makes the green of the trees and shrubs more vivid than any other time of the day. Dew covers the grass, the bushes, the vines, and the trees, and the individual droplets twinkle ever so slightly in the half-light before the dawn.
A twig snaps.
A doe. She walks with the grace of an animal that knows these forest paths by heart. The fog does not bother her-what her eyes cannot see, her ears will hear, or her nose