Uniton

A dark silhouette drags toward the next orange mist, scraping unrhythmicly over the neglected past. Camel’s back groans with discontempt for moonlight, bending under cruel weight of half lit candles. Mr Figure passes to his inevitable destination as he passes by whispering brick and sly grass, turning left at the y and not moaning but quietly huffing. No thought creeps, just blank. Shoulders waning and feet lead-like he proceeds without comfort or tactless counting. Cranking chains move forcefully within his knees, stumbling on the last stretch, aching neck and crisp joints.