On the plains

The earth had all but crashed into the moon. The trees had all but withered. The light had all but shone its last breath. The houses had all but slumped. And the men had no hope.

The days were dark now. The nights seemed lighter.

The old man walked across the plain. His slumped back made him a fighter. He moved across. Never daring thinking a thought. Thoughts are useless and foolish. Men who think today are ghoulish. The grey man encountered some folk. He treated them kindly by taking care of his own. His staff they sometimes wanted. But they just lost their eyes.

It might have been called America once. It was now a land with no name. Its only name now, the death that laid upon it. Each rotting child added a character.

The man was stopped. Before him stood a young woman. She smiled at him. Her teeth glistened white in between her dirt-covered skin. He didn’t smile. He wouldn’t think of it. But they started to walk together nonetheless. He could not feel anymore. He was a hundred and twelve.

She felt it was all right.

He told her he killed a child. She asked him his reasons, not readily thinking he was evil. He told her the child tried to blind him. He showed her an empty socket. He told her he would never have thought in America blindness weighed heavier than guilt. He said now, there was no guilt.

She asked about America. He just mumbled that she wouldn’t understand.

They walked together. Further. They might have died later on, in some way.

His many footsteps on the plains a blink of an eye. Her curiosity a scent in a huge wind. But they might not have died. One might even have felt them being there forever. Together on the plains. Together in the wind. Just together. Words never felt in America.