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BEYOND HERE LIES NOTHING
Days passed quietly, the air cooling from bitter heat that had been so wrathful in taking over the land. His watch station permitting a hint of boredom; political rumors of stolen equines and other sorts lingered among his area. But alas, he took little notice to such; the lad wasn’t one to pass time within the heart of politics, and instead he took pleasure in working to protect the land that had once been sorely won. Night had fallen over him, presenting thousands upon thousands of untouchable stars to glitter toward a savage hilt. A sliced slender moon helped guide footfalls tonight; the goddess remained mostly hidden, but she was awake enough to provide a meager shadow across the dusty desert floor.
Midas walked along the ridges of his homeland, neck didn’t bother to arch nor body attempt at graceful step. He was simply existing, mind absent thought; for fear that sadness born from a heart of weak moment would rob his rightful attention. A soft sigh trembled forth, feathers hung loosely at his sides as if he couldn’t be bothered with the energy required for tucking them neatly across. Not a single soul could be seen, so for once he was lost in an unbent silence that only the soft hoot of a desert owl broke.
Softly he prayed to the one true father as he so often did, “My lord,” as gentle as the wind on a spring day he whispered, “Your child grows weary with unshed grief,” sorrow clenching his throat tightly, the ebony painted stud paused under a pale overhang with skull lowering submissively, “Will this heart ever find rest?”
Midas walked along the ridges of his homeland, neck didn’t bother to arch nor body attempt at graceful step. He was simply existing, mind absent thought; for fear that sadness born from a heart of weak moment would rob his rightful attention. A soft sigh trembled forth, feathers hung loosely at his sides as if he couldn’t be bothered with the energy required for tucking them neatly across. Not a single soul could be seen, so for once he was lost in an unbent silence that only the soft hoot of a desert owl broke.
Softly he prayed to the one true father as he so often did, “My lord,” as gentle as the wind on a spring day he whispered, “Your child grows weary with unshed grief,” sorrow clenching his throat tightly, the ebony painted stud paused under a pale overhang with skull lowering submissively, “Will this heart ever find rest?”
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