Piece

He grabbed every piece. Every fine and minute shard. Sharp, jagged and hard. Each one cutting into his hand. Red crimson fluid painted his hand, drenching his arms till it drips down his elbows, trailing his path.

But still, he pressed on. Piece after piece. Like a possessed man, blind to the cuts, blind to the pain. He continued walking, lumbering each step like his shoulders carried the weight of the world.

He'd pause for a moment, looking at his blood drenched hands. And in his eyes, a sudden realisation dawn. Like an epiphany. It shined through his eyes. For a moment, he shudders. Shaking, as if he was holding back something. His eyes turns red, and he brings his hands to cover his face, colouring his face in hues of red.

In those tinted red fluid, his tears are covered. The pain suddenly became unbearable. And the cuts burn with agonising heat. And he falls to the ground, and still he becomes. Like a weeping angel, only angelic is far from what he would think he was. A statue forgotten in the dark cold world, where people would stare and marvel at its grotesque beauty, but will never fully understand.

But he gets up, pushing his scared hand to the ground as leverage. Standing frigidly, he continues on his path like a man bound by oath. To wander his lives trying to piece back each broken parts. To make a whole. So, walk he does. Piece by piece. All a fool's promise. But are we all not fools too?