Tom is in the meadow now.

Frolicking in the mist of the morning he runs and shouts, rolling in the dirt. Within a half an hour the face paint smears, tracks running the length of his nose, making valleys in the red. Within that half an hour the world slips away yet still sleeps. Stone still, miles away.

The blades of grass do not bend under his feet because they pity him. He wishes he were dead. The boy in him soars as the blisters burst on his unused feet. His paws have just now been born. That dog. He stayed under the porch for an eternity once he learned what he did.

I used to know Tom. I do not know this animal. He fled, leaving behind me: wag.

His sister drew her last on a Thursday. With her great eyes she blamed the boy and he went mad. Possessed by the god. Her hand went limp in his, yet the fingers still pointed in condemnation.

In the mist of the morning he runs and shouts, swinging the blade at the trees that jump up to face him until he can take no more and turns the blade to himself. The drum still beats ever faster until his heart races then too fast, and he collapses as it shatters instead.

But he does not touch the ground. The pity remembers him and holds him fast.

Across the singing green, the trees bulge and grow as the veins are cut off and then finally bursts, projecting spirits to flood the air with milk and honey. But then, the cry of the nightingale rings overhead as lightning strikes, piercing through the wind and landing across its back. But he imagined it and the bird flies free, just as it had from his hand that week before. Thursday.

He calms and soaks the ground which he does not touch. He imagines himself under her wing. She carries him safely to the waters where the others throw their troubled minds to drown. He can see himself too, sprawled on the glinting surface, a spirit of no significance. His reflection lashes out, making waves in a seizure of purposelessness.

He brought the mirror to smash, but it was broke before.

Dearest Someone,

            To whom it may concern, or if you may have ever cared, I address you as a man of the mist like all we others, in spirit, anyways. We hang from trees. Bound by the feet, and strung in the air until finally time overtakes us each in the inevitable chase of agonizing life and we slowly tie the noose and slip our heads through, our lungs kissing the knife. I wish you well, but I’ve had enough of this.

Yours truly,

                        I was broke before