A Christmas Visitation

The Wooded Path

Down a broken gray road by slack-planked shacks and rusted, wrecked hope hulls the man trudged; blood spattered, bone weary, spat-upon and silent.  His pain dulled in the analgesic balm of weariness; he was ready to lay down his head for the last time.  All that might have been was lost.  All he feared, finally, had come.  Frightened love, itself, had fled.  And so it was with the man.  And so it was with the world.  This path was a cold dead-end.

This, the terminal mile, had been reached.  The last splinter of hope had been to find this place.  Now, there was no need to struggle to grasp it.  This, too, could be surrendered to the void.  To dust, the man could return.  He remembered who he was, too spent for weeping.  But his shriveled soul knew what it was to cry.

No gravity remained to pull him down. …

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