Beaten

Circling down a rustic river laid a beaten boy.

He was angry and tired fo what has seemed to be inflicted upon him.

As the night fell upon him he whimpered in his pity.

“Why God?” He asked with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

A response rushed past him with a great gust.

The gust of wind expressed its disdain for the boy.

Words entered his mind like a mechanism designed for such a thing.

The night rolled on and left the boy in his wallow.

For the power to persevere was squandered.

Instead, he blamed who had beaten him and pitied himself.

Wasted energy left our morbid bodies behind.

Because the wind says more than just nothing.

It says our meaning to exist.