The Stoic
Whispers of wild winds increase their fury.
I stare steadily towards the edge of the horizon.
My heart is indifferent, no mercy, no ease.
I breathe only the surrounding loneliness.
Up on the hill, the cemetery tolls its dirge.
I care not, as I feel neither sorrow nor joy.
It seems like waves crushing on the salty rocks.
I care not about the amplitude of force
That should fill my heart with grief or happiness.
I feel unmoved. Let the hills echo their tolls.
My heart is tepid, with neither chill nor heat,
No ice or fire can affect the innards of my soul.
I live as if only the moment counts and that’s enough.
FICTION
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