The bark had put on age.
Complex in its being. It was a single malt with many hues and specks of brown and gold and swirls of taste, and a smell so dry.
With cracks so fine.
Soul branching into many rivulets. And like veins they become, part of anatomy, but reading like that important yet invisible sign.
A landscape of vivid monotony.
I make my way through the field of many constant and fleeting raptures.
Missing yesterday’s ‘me’, today being that solitary reaper.
And then the sign.
Melancholy becomes me but not this time, for the sign simply said, ‘No trail ahead’
I turned around feeling inexplicably light, ready to reclaim what was once mine.