A world without magic
Perhaps I should pity them instead of despise them. After all, instead of taking their children to giant mountain ranges outlining a proud region, they instead scrape their feet on insignificant pebbles, escaping ever further and faster away from the mountains that now barely peek over the horizon. Is this who you were, what you were a part of? their children would ask, but they would only mutter a mere shadow of the affirmative answer that years ago would have been a shout proudly ascending into the air and catching the wind who would carry its message far into the mountains like a eulogy to a ghost. And the mountains, tired, old and unable to die, would hang their head for they could no longer speak.
Now, though, they walk with their children away from everything and toward nothing, pretending ever still to be heading into new frontier. The blackblooded footprints trailing behind foretell the unsympathetic truth that they would soon scrape their feet into stubs and could never head for home in the mountains, by now drowning below the surface of the horizon. Stuck in the desert they would remain, seeing that upon each footprint pointing away from home is written the word Shame. Addicted to pain, they find at least some kind of sensation in the razor-pointed pebbles piercing their foot with each step, though with each step they empty themselves of life.
They hated me for yelling at them.
But I wasn't yelling at them.
I was calling for them to come back home.
Now, though, they walk with their children away from everything and toward nothing, pretending ever still to be heading into new frontier. The blackblooded footprints trailing behind foretell the unsympathetic truth that they would soon scrape their feet into stubs and could never head for home in the mountains, by now drowning below the surface of the horizon. Stuck in the desert they would remain, seeing that upon each footprint pointing away from home is written the word Shame. Addicted to pain, they find at least some kind of sensation in the razor-pointed pebbles piercing their foot with each step, though with each step they empty themselves of life.
They hated me for yelling at them.
But I wasn't yelling at them.
I was calling for them to come back home.