• Everything has purpose,
    I was once told.
    But it is hard to hold young dreams here.
    They sleep best where needs are met and wants are few.

    No butterflies fly here.
    No birds sing.
    Here, rain falls in torrents and stings like ice.
    Children caught dancing in the pour are swept away.
    The sun no longer tickles my skin.
    It causes my lips to bleed.
    My throat to groan.

    No refuge.

    I am to slay a monster.
    I am told it is just.
    Just a simple thing.
    It dwells in these mountains.
    These mountains that loomed over me.
    Though closer they do not seem as large.
    A glance and there are footholds and ledges to climb and peaks to reach.

    I am to slay a monster with callous,
    Bare hands.
    The monster is sleeping.
    Quietly.

    I see its face and am reminded;
    Of the caress of a warm day.
    Of rain drops dancing across my tongue.
    Of the face I once saw staring at me.
    Staring into my eyes.
    Seeing myself,
    Then seeing no one.
    It is mine and yet no longer.

    Simple.

    The monster is gone,
    The rain pours,
    The sun burns,
    The butterflies have perished in the cold,
    And the birds could not stay.