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The fleshy boy refuted his folk-song soul, which tied, clotted, and strained where morality thinned. You might wonder which path he corroded: if the railroad tracks his soul hiked could sit up and transform into ladders, mounting wind, dominating the lies clouds told. And did these tracks-turned-ladders begat virtuous utterings as they mounted to serenescent destinations? What could he store in silos, if his climb collected new? Principalities and powers, what hasn’t visibly favored itself among us, yet overtly in every found and lost conscience. What person could he organize himself to? When he split himself into two lumps, his predisposition was then two. And his heart as it’s natural affection, stout and skinned roughly or hindered.
Was it the brawn of the boy that thinned each reach and founded foot? The blame was sight, and in it he found none. No ladder as far as he could see. To the extent his eyes searched, there was only forest and autumn fallen leaves. What he could see was a spirit of permanence, departing. The boy cried aloud at this departure.
When his vernacular said his name was Mack, it was because he liked its sharp edges that puffed and lips smacked. And all by his lonesome was the name so-decided. Inside his mind was where most of his person spent.
To be fortunately minded, he was fortunate enough, time not given, but indolent to the quickening of a hunt. Mack had only seen corrupted blood from his own skin. And, hunger didn’t tempt what the fire could fulfill.
His life was gifted in gilded flags that stretched and flared like their hoist was undeniable. They wavered and shunned shadows. And the cackles they let out, though sparks to human ears, were epiphanies to Mack’s system. With vitality, an image of water knew his vivacity and sought to tell all, had not he been isolated. None but God as his witness.
Animals near or nigh, to the violence he couldn’t arrogate. It was all that was left after a deflated corruption sought new places to destroy. If you could call that miniscule! Lest you judge the law of liberty and feign a doer, without the do’s.
His company was Ms. Ruffed Grouse, for as long as she nested. When the Ruffed Grouses migrate for winter, a White Tailed Deer would take her place. If the White Tailed Deer disappeared, Mack chased and was chased by Eastern Cotton-tailed Rabbits, which to him looked oddly similar to the Snowshoe Hares. He didn’t know if the two got along, on account he’s never seen them side by side, but butterflies told him they had some in their stomachs. And butterflies loved him.
A hut was his residence, made in pine needle weaves. And golden was their shine, when the rain didn’t fall and drip inside. And coated beneath what glamor you could see, was a thick layer of hardened mud. The structure leaned onside a grassy hill, as if tears of time made its buoyant nature weary. Mack discontented its lean and spent days doing anything but eating (because he didn’t need to) to cut his hands on their sharp edges. To form calluses where his palms bent together braided strands, the needles could needlessly be described as brittle. When strained and broken into two, no doubt the length was then torn into four, and six furiously.
There was and never will be home security insurance of the hut.
In lieu of autumn, winter came as a regressive spirit. The wind unbraided straw, swept it from its twists, while the rain softened the ground. Mud would sneak beneath Mack’s infrastructure and make slack of the needles.
When it fell, snow bore weight, and sunk the roof of his hut before hungry boars could.
Even if its chaotic nature destroyed, Mack suspired for its destruction. It instituted change, and change vibrated his folk-song soul when his life source and gift favored flesh.
There was a darling river that obtrusively neighbored to Mack, and he would’ve fled weren’t the succulent, enriched greenery outlining the edge. The teems of leaves swayed in unison. Though Mack didn't eat them, their appearance was delicious, especially when dew drops coated them in discolored dots, reflecting the sunlight
He could see it from his camp and came down behind the bush.
Whence he forged the path river-bound by his own bare feet, roots dared not stretch across. Seedlings died from their ignorance beneath his feet: it was the best way to get trampled. Now in the aftermath of his effort, the land was barren; just dirt and proudly so just dirt along the ku-batch trail. A banded thew of grunts coupled with a cough claimed its name like no sign could.
Rustling a door out of the bush, he squatted, touched the tips of his fingers down, and grazed a smooth stone. Cold today, as it’s flow was likely melt off from last week’s storm.
There in the water was an ongoing poem that you read by feeling the rivulets. Timidly it came, consanguinity to an introverted sensile. It wasn’t timid enough that he could see his own reflection, but thereupon feebly suggested loneliness.
A panoply of smooth stones littered where his path intersected. Eroded from the stream’s constant beating poem.
There are three fish Mack gawked guesses at. He saw an ignorant fish, a willfully evil fish, and a fish that was wise, old and grayish with whiskers, but listened backwards to its intuition. A smart fish is often not wise because welfare evil embezzles what’s good to… asunder. “Let's follow a tale of the fish who was once given what fate incumbent. A trusted and verified contentment; true happiness when devoted to wisdom. And as fate adjourned it, there was the fish. Past bulbous cluster-rocks, off to destination without half his left fin. Wisdom was his friend and his most curious advocate. Before sea breath could tell you, his actions proved wisdom was behind them. It happened to be three unwedded years, his lifespan, and all of them spent wisdom’s minion.
To clarify, it wasn’t so that this fish could ask wisdom for a drink while hindering for advice. The stream he swam in had no cost for its refreshment, so the fish abided in no favor nor persuasion to catch wisdom over a drink. Wisdom could be summoned (like it wasn’t already watching). The fish was clueless about that, so for the sake of the story wisdom could be summoned. A few things to know about wisdom, wasn’t agreeable, wasn’t corruptible, twas tried and true.
When we are aware, methods of evil are easier than virtuous sacrifices, in other words evil is the ticket to power. Power is competition, and the faster you get there the faster you beat the competition. Get there through unruly means and granted, your system is robust. Pardon the seriousness, what you felt facades insecurity. What is someone who always needs more, greedy? Empathetically speaking, that person is broken. In any case, if good wins over evil, the first one is last and the last first. If good wins over evil, humility is power and prideful success triumphs nothing but the pit in greed’s heart. It satisfies itself under the boot of benevolence, and calls for more weight at the end of its promenade. A body of water allotted beside this fight holds a menagerie for witnesses in the vast engulfing saltwater. And I’m dizzy like the water, it cycles and cycles”
He said in one breath, impassioned and enflamed. Tired and hungry and to his fire in his hut, he returned.