Trudge

The wanderer’s pack cut a ragged line through the dessert. Dragged by calloused fingers locked about it’s rough loop, broken straps trailing and stroking either side of an ever-growing trench, stretching back to that dark horizon. The straps’ palsied clawing at the furrow’s edges agitates the sand; a pathetic attempt to hide the wanderer’s progress. Though progress is an all too optimistic label for her trudging.

Just onward, forward and away.

This journey’s purpose lies lost, somewhere back down the line; a necessity or desire that gropes at her from her beginnings. Whys and becauses now, all but dried up. Reason, cracked and crumbled and trampled into the sands behind. Whether hers was pilgrimage or flight, she can no longer remember, only sure that she has to keep on, toward the constantly setting sun. On she walks, out of her dark forgetfulness . Her mouth raving and her mind reeling. Her skins empty and her face peeling. She walks on. Dragging herself into that ever-dying light.

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