He was just a child.
He was just a little boy. Just a boy who liked to smile and laugh. Just a boy who divided and conquered like a man. Just a boy who played in the rivers and ran in the fields of feldspar wheat and sweet smelling wildflowers of the countryside.
Only a child who longed for the life of a King. Only a child who was bruised and beat and cut until he could no longer breathe. Yet he returned home.
Yet everyday, he would return to those who loved him.
Every day he would wear a smile and his eyes woul flash with blue clarity and hope for the future. Every day he would plan with enthusiasism and every day it would drain away.
But one day he left.
One day he left for good and made home elsewhere. One day we never heard from him unless it was rumours spread by the bored folks of the rural life. One day his light left, and I was all alone.
Then, it all stopped.
Time, wind, sound.
It all stopped.
The trees stopped their rustle. The water stopped flowing. The birds stopped singing.
But the worst,
the worst was the smiles. The worst was the laughing. The worst was the sudden end to the dividing and conquering and the splashing of the rivers and the playing in the fields and the scent of flowers carried on by the clean air. The worst was his breath. And how it all stopped.
How he stopped. And how the child was no more. How once again, I was alone.
He was only a child. Only a boy. Only a kid.
Only a baby.