Torment.

gradov
gradov
Jul 22, 2017 · 2 min read

Tattered, old rags cover his pale skin and tough body.
He walks through the desert of ice and plains of frost; his legs and feet are covered in cuts and bruises. Shards of ice and glass bite into his feet, ripping pulsating cuts and leaving a trail of freezing blood. His face has turned to stone from the caring touches of the wind and the endless lashes from blizzards of regret.

Clanging chains echo the path He has chosen. Chains of truth, not letting him go from the boiling cauldron of his life. Molten lead drips from his hands and fingers, on to the frozen soil. Time and time again, he stops on his way; He plunges his hands into the cauldron, trying to find, where the chains are attached, to try and free himself from them.

Time to stop once more.

Time to realize the truth — plunging his hands into the lead, boiling in the cauldron, and searching for something that may not exist — will not free him. It will tear him down, bring only pain and add numbers on the clock.

Time to realize the fact, that to free himself from the chains, He must rip them out from his own flesh; He must leave a piece of himself here in this cold, desolate place. Leave it here for history to consume and dissolve in the fabric of time.

As the clocks spin forward, free from the chains, He continues his journey across the plains of frost, to the mountains of solitude. Echos of clanging chains have been left in the past. The need to stop, time and time again, is no more.

The bleeding is no more.

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