And He Beats His Fists

The man by the road side is pleading again.

more time… less burden… new hope…

He beats his fists on the ground.

With each tick, his need for the days to slow down gets more rash and desperate and frightening. Time for him moves exceedingly fast for he’s shoved by the years behind him. I shouldn’t be here, the man screams out. He wails through a voice cloaked in humour. The others hear but don't care. They filch his cry for comic relief laughing with an air of pomposity. There is no discern for his pain.

But I hear the pain and though it cause me to stir I pray for it to continue.

It is the loneliness that fuels his ardor; it is the vacancy that accommodates him. In the darkness he illuminates. In the silence he resounds. I reach in my pocket and give him six moons. Great masses of time. Alas they’re too heavy for one who’s but carried grains of sand all the days of his life. So I cover my eyes and I listen to his breath and I prostrate myself on the ground…

And he beats his fists.