from September 2014
Skinned knuckles clasped the iron bars of his cage, beast like, haggard, grey. His clothes, once immaculate, hung in tatters, stubble and dirt lined his face. He gazed at the moon, pale, imperial, untouched by the hate and anger around him. Serene it floated on high, unsullied, eternal. Against all reason hope stirred in his chest.
Like wolves, eager to feast on his bones, his captors snarled, a rifle butt descending towards bruised fingers. He moved back, back into his isolation, into the darkness, but he had seen the light of the sun reflected in the night sky. He cherished the image of purity in his heart.
Once there had been love and life. Somewhere this moon shone on them still secure and safe in their beds. They would be praying for him of that he was sure; agnostic though he was the thought somehow comforted his heart. At daybreak…
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