My Writings

The Horned One

Artwork by: Bogdan Sassu

The mass near the road moved, moaned and spewed its offspring into the cold. The Horned One awoke, groaned and cried lamentingly. He had dragged his body painfully through the cold with an invisible rope when I found him numb and ruined – lying on the crude ground near the road.

I saw myself laying his dry body in the dirt. This grave – this open wound in the heart of the Universe, has no gravestone. Only Myself and I know that he lies there, sleeps and dreams.

Much later, in a life outworn like an old shoe, I let my old bones go down time’s road to find him. The night blossomed and no one saw the old man hitting the ground with a shovel – to no avail. The grave was empty.

Much later – rejuvenated and wiser I would find that in the night when I met him frail and broken, I had dug myself into the grave.

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