Darkness rides.

Tempestuous tides.

Rising on all sides.

He hides.

Scurries to the bank.

Curls up under an overhang.

Terra firma falls.




Blue turns to brown.

It strolls into view.

Pushes aside all other moods.

The currents cease.

The stream falls asleep.


Hoping to draw no attention.

Goes into hibernation.

Not a single molecular vibration.

He feels a slight strangulation.

Aware he is there.

It is letting him know.

He is not his own.

He is Its.

A keepsake.

Something it can do what it wants when it wants with.

But, first, it has a task to complete.

He is a part of it.

Just not yet.

It takes the bend.

The stream begins again.

Brown back to blue.

He gasps.

Takes the clay.

Lays it hurriedly on his tiny frame.

He takes the rocks.

Places them where he wants the pain to stop.

He collects thorns to embellish his soon to be horns.

The fires arrive with alacrity.

Ignite the overhead canopy.

Unimaginable heat.


The stream steams.

The clay bakes.

The rocks and thorns stay in place.

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