The distance calls, but he is without strength.
His words no longer echo, he is void of depth, and rests on forgotten sand.
Once fierce and voracious, a champion, a conqueror, adjectives from a forgotten time-line.
Now, could barely make a dent on the sand, would hardly strain a bed’s strings, easily blown away by a sneeze.
Lesser and lace muscles, all veiny and wrinkly, a shadow of his former self.
Of what use is vengeance on a weightless soul, devoid of excitement, a battle with no thrill, easily a waste of oxygen.
A soul, whose shadow is more conspicuous, even death no longer finds him amusing.
The ticking clock steals time, and time shortens telomeres.
Now he wishes he could shake the dust off his shoes, and out-run the past.
If only consequences were evitable.
Emmalase.
Emmalase