His voice was deep

Like a distant roll

of ancient thunder

A low rumble

that no one could hear

it had already faded

and disappeared

His scars were hidden

under His “thick skin”

massive marks

whip lashes coated Him

thick and rigid with time

unfading

He has endured

and survived

but does not know why

no one has realised

that even though

He wants to

He cannot die

there is nothing left to kill

Nothing but smoke drifting

through a slow blowing wind

the leftovers from

the fire and passion

that once burned

and raged on within

extinguished

by the lake

held behind the broken dam

If this Boy had written a story

He wouldn’t have been

the protagonist

the antagonist

He is the extra

the background

that no one noticed

moving through the halls

like a ghost

invisible

and no one would notice

when that ghost vanished

when it no longer walked

through the hall

when the path

it had worn

was no longer filled

but a space remained

empty

and alone