Terrible winds buffeted the jacket, flapping the appendages in random motions, hindering and obstructing. Walking against it felt like it would burn the muscles to cinder, but the burning within the bosom was far more overpowering.
Flying leaves, dust, and debris; scratching skin and blinding eyes. Posture far from noble, bent and subdued, shoulders hunched and hair flying, untamed. Stumbling over rocks, big and small. Even the small pebbles proving to be treacherous travel mates. Trees shaking precariously, branches trembling as if in admonishment, sometimes reneging on the vow, other times giving a sharp reminder on the back of the head.
To a thunderous Wagner came the Bride, cold and unforgiving. No cape nor cloak to prevent the relentless onslaught. Attacking with bullets, soft but piercing. It flowed down the cheeks, resembling the ghost of a cousin that till now refused to show. Flyaway hair now calmed and knotted, stuck and domesticated. The stones getting impetus to play mischief, wreak more havoc and elicit more curses.
The road seemed never-ending, it probably was, accompanying the trudging legs, meandering and rigid. In an abstract form of cosmogyral ambling, lost in the clouds that darken and gloom. The eyes twinkle seeking stars, but the universe offers only swirling iron. Lost in a play, unsure of what was within and is now without.
It rises, the path, it goes through the wall of grey. Lost in mist, with no promise of return. It is slick, covered in a shiny veneer, of oil or glue? Desolate, not depressing, a form of meaningful solitude pervades it. One promise shines through though, of change. What change, is left out, as in all promises, giving it a loophole, that it can be shattered.
At the end, I ask, “Will there be a fall, a crossroad, or simply more road?”
The reply is in the language of the road, the only sentence a path can ever hope to frame, “Merely walk, and see..”