“Here lies the body of an angel,” the stone man began, but all the lovers turned to mud. She was what made them gold.
“There is no sky today,” one onlooker remarked with quiet gray eyes.
“There is nothing to see,” a vague notion responded.
This is a sad tick indeed, but the clock dares not stop. You see that clock made of rotted trees, needs it oily carrots, so all the sparks keep at it. Unaware the hands move in a circle. They weep for that angel, but only tears of gold. What good is that in a place of raw mortality? That is why the angel weeps back.
All the mourners fly and crawl away, no longer able to be mud. After all it’s just not practical. Our great eye follows one, whose rocked heart remains dirt. He steps in tune to a beat only he can hear. The road responds with calm gestures towards reality. He does not follow. He is lost at home. That angel was the hand he held. Now he swims only to swallow. “Swallow what,” you may ask. No one ever told him. Now he limps and is blamed for it.
As his limp becomes his waltz a bird he knew a minute ago calls. “Sir, you are my brother, why be afraid of the final hour?”
“I am afraid, because the clock is not mine,” he looks down and he looks up, he is a shadow, he forgot. Shadows cannot see. Now he had a place to go. They screamed its name as nowhere. The map was in his tears. They were inky with truth and memory. They were no longer whole, they were the only true fraction he knew how to spell. A hole of a different sort.
He fell in unable to avoid it. He felt the air play tricks on the wind as deeper down he passed. Suddenly the smell of lies became a taste upon his hand. He became enraged for no more reason than to be. He smashed the sacred nothingness. Suddenly it yelled back.
“How dare you weep you rich fool,” with all the contempt of a dying man.
“I have no rhymes for the judging mirror, when all I seek is to be” the shadow cried back with spite enough to bleed a rainbow dry.
Then thunder came between the stare of stars on either side. The shadow slipped by repenting his anger. He knew it was merely delusion. He sought the sanctuary of hysteria, but his war was raging now. Swept away in consequence he began to sing a song he did not know:

Away with smiling clouds
Paid for in sworn hearts
Damn all that be true
It’s just a mockery of a lie

On he went set in his lack of air. Starving the very earth of any chance at glee. He was happy in a new twisted way, because it was all he had. The nothingness was long gone now, killed perhaps replaced by self serving kings.
“You’re at our table now,” they laughed.
For the first time the shadow began to bleed. Not by his own blade, but by his soul’s choice. That blood would wake him from his drunken death. Born anew he sought the counsel of a rock, who said but one thing, “be your purpose and be it always.”
The shadow malleable, since the sun had risen, took the words and made it his hand. It fit like a glove, so for the first time since the funeral he ran for joy towards the other stories. His legs became all sorts of things, he didn’t care. All he needed was a smile. Any colour would do, he had yet to find his new one. Now it all began.
He had his mission, those Clock’s hands would be turned back and that angel would fly again. What scarlet cunning it would take what silver determination. He would do it, he needed that angel, but now he drank his milk to prove it. He found a pen, and a sword, wore both with an open mind. Then guarded it with a doubtless helmet and drew his banner with the war paint of experience.
“All the clock would pay,” he thought, but not with hate, but with a sandy gray goal. He would rely on love to write the bible, and then he wouldn’t stop. He Found an advancement tied to a tree and knew that life had offered him what he had needed he rode that wise panther, all the way to the edge of the first mountain. There the panther turned to him and said “take off your helmet; you need it no more, replace it with that mirror you once feared. As long as it does not glow despising light, you will never need fear the woods. The words of other are meant as arrows, or bricks, take them for what they are, for only the world can topple itself and allies cook tales with less poison.”
“Thank you wise device, I trust you are not real. On that I shall rely to build my new world.” The shadow responded only slowly grasping his own words.
“That is a dangerous undertaking, best lift the stones placed by the narrator than by your own hand, a shadow is no writer,” the jaguar warned with loving concern.
“What of my pen? Does that not mean I am a writer?” the shadow responded with slight tremors, now afraid of the dark.
“All is what you make of it, you may be in control, but only of yourself, so rely on that and a foundation will grow a house.”
“Thank you my friend, I understand.” The shadow whispered gratefully.
On he walked with a certain spin, to avoid the stares of the on looking trees. Off these trees grew sin and also greatness and also goodness. The shadow knew not this place that could be found on the map of the wise, but not of the young. It took all his heart not to judge, for his mind tied his hands to his side. Then he encountered his first sad tune.
A homeless proverb lay by the path. Vomit could be seen turning bright blue in streams along its mangled body. It had turned its eyes to the ground and taken a vow of silence. It was cast out of the city it had lived in all its life. In the tree beside it a few simple things were scratched.
- We’re given help, so that once we have it we should realize it is now ours to give.
- I was cast out by a selfish creed, left helpless and alone I died long ago.
- Carry me with you; my legs are that of lips, you are my only chance.
The shadow looked with curious eyes. The eyes were inward which made it hard to see, but they responded to sudden change in affliction. The shadow did not know what to make of the vagrant wisdom. The shadow was on a mission and did not know if he could afford offering anything. In that instant of trying thought a sparrow flew by and spat wine at the shadow’s feet. The shadow knew what had to be earned and what had to be spent so that the spiritual economy might be kept within his market’s gates.
He went up to the dying proverb and put it on his back with mighty harnesses made of skill he did not have up until the demand. He took that to mean his cards were all hearts and he had a hand to play and play it well. As he took the proverb on himself it sunk in with a smooth unity that would make the heavens blush.
They were one and he had a new song to sing. He had a new shovel and new rock felt earth. He would plough it and hope progress grew. The crop would be fine if he ever stayed where the sun did shine. Still he would mark plans with a sanded precision then move on. For later days called him with the same luring voice of yesterdays. It was only his ear made of figurative matter that distinguished between the two.
He moved on through the stone spiked forest. With every step it transformed into a metallic jungle and he tried not to trip over the cold of each night. Many realizations passed with the voice of his carried proverb. It was the carrying more than the voice that acted as the fire. Unfortunately the irony caught, because the wood was too dense to accept. Suddenly all was aflame.
He looked around and he was made into a starry shape of a victim. He blamed himself though he knew not why. To lack was the simplest thing. To have entailed expectation, for which he now did not expect. The twist hurt his neck. His cause was cast astray. He lost it in the dark, with only the fiery “mistakes” to light his way. He had to find it, but the impulse to lie down was too great. Fumes of doubt filled his lungs and heart. It was poisonous and with a vague colour, but not to broken eyes.
He recalled all to this point, but only in a blur. The shadow finally lost the ability to pass through. He stopped looking for but an instant and in that instant knew his hell. He had to find his cause. He had to, he had to, he had to. No less he would accept. With that in mind he did not only find it, but found it came to him and just like that the forest vanished. To reveal a legend lit sky and a river of milk and honey.
He knew his path now. His map was writing itself. This time not with tears, but the ink of that pen he had so wisely packed. The shadow would follow that river all the way to the centre of the clock. And there he would push with all his might and make what was wrong, right.
The shadow now rode on his own cloud; he had borrowed from the gods. He called the cloud lovely and knew it to be true. With great forward speed he rode towards that final destination; Until he saw what he was looking for; the answer to a question, the nature of his story, and the square root of all in one. He came to the centre and those inward eyes were pounding. He looked at the hands of this great clock they called a planet. Fate and Chance were working them as one.
“I am here to make things right,” the shadow called aloud.
“I am here to see things done,” Fate responded tired from his work.
“I am here just because,” Chance laughed at both the dreary faces.
“Allow me to push those hands back. Vend me your mercy I shall pay with gratitude.” The shadow said, now kneeling.
“’tis not up to us,” the two keepers said in unison, then continued “there is nothing any of us can do but play along to this piper’s song.”
“Than all this has been for not,” the shadow slumped down knowing his unlikely defeat, “how could the story let me lose?” he questioned all at once.
“All is right, trust in that; you have made things better through compassion wisdom and self realization. You have turned loss into gain and sorrow into certainty. You have overcome doubt as champion. You are no shadow. You are truth; you are whole, now you may be with your angel though your angel may never be here with you.”