My feet marched to the beat. Step forward, step forward, into the nothing. Over the hill. To meet my maker. If I could not see him today, then maybe tomorrow. Through the trees, through the grass, through the jungle, through the rivers and lakes and streams. I am joined by many as our march continues. Steady beat. Steady beat.
Thunderclouds roll in and out. Window dressing on the frame of our future. We seek to meet our maker. He hides deep in this direction. She hides where the ball of fire came from. Truth be told, we do not know much.
Toward the ball of fire. It has been gone for so long. The day never begins. The night never ends. We are trapped but the beat continues.
Our party swells. Some do not believe. They join anyway. Nothing better to do. The television screens have grown cold. The radios whine. Our empire has crumbled. Into the mountains, we go.
Some say there is water there. Some say there are cities and towns. But they were gone long ago. They are liars and cheats. Wait for you to sleep and steal your sheets. To forget them we march to the beat. March to find the maker who keeps it dark.
The march is hard. The ground mean. The water a stone in our stomachs. An evil that will haunt after drinking. We drink anyway. Instinct is non-negotiable.
Food we do not eat. We eat meat when someone falls, but only then. There is no fighting. Their death is a gift. And gifts can’t be taken. We hunt for the maker. We eat grass. We eat bugs. Anything that was never food. What is food?
Cannot see through the haze. It is always there. An outer-wall to our world. An edge. Always moving. Never defined. The maker will get through it. The maker will see. The maker will show.
People talk sour. They speak ill of the maker. The maker does not care. They say the maker was just a man. They say the maker was just a woman. They say the maker made it dark. But the maker made light. How can light make dark? No, the maker made truth. The maker made the ball of fire. The maker needs to make more. We need to help.
Rocks grow steep. Paths grow crooked. We lose direction. Lose certainty. Many die. Too many to eat. We keep them. We keep the wind. Keep it on our backs. Like it always was. Forward. To the beat. The beat that slows. The beat that stumbles. There is beauty in it. Vast and wide. Like maker love.
The kids are all gone. All have given themselves. Still sad. There were so many. So many curious faces. Willing to join. Our numbers dwindle. So does the grass. And the bugs. The edge shrinks in. Tightening. The beat shortens. The beat pushes. The night forgives. It brightens. The air is sweet. It is mean too. Short.
We go up. We go down. It doesn’t matter. The maker is toward the light. And the light is up and down. The light is with the wind to our backs.
Five left to finish the march. Five left to follow the beat. Five left huddling. Five left in the cold.
Light flashes from the wind. From the direction of our backs. The maker comes.