Thousands upon thousands of words, a river of words,
rolled and roiled beneath his craft, pelting him forwards through the rift.
The bones of sentences long hidden, forgotten, and smudged, tumbled over and over
within the merciless waves of wet ink,
and propelled the cracked man forwards into a land where once no water flowed.
Ahead, he could see a house of paper and wind,
where atop a ladder perched a tiny man,
whistling and singing into the ceaseless cadence of the rift's random rumble.
Glancing quickly into the distance to his right,
he could see the small giant man making mountains of fur and wood,
lyrics of his chant tumbling down the cliff-sides in the distance.
Even from fathoms away, the cracked man could hear the despair
of stone breaking and cracking into a jumbled heap of letters.
Through the rapids then,
Bent and withered with a soul the shape of a snowflake,
the cracked man began his own written chant,
and the energy began pouring out of his feet,
like sand from a sieve,
and into the boneyard of words beneath his feet,
beneath his craft,
beneath his silent lips moving in a private prayer.
His small boat began changing direction,
as dark sunshine began breathing over and into the rift,
and words began crawling up over the side of the skiff,
bones and letters weathered and disused,
filling the bottom of the cracked man's craft.
Forwards then to the tiny man raising his paper-thin chant to the horizon,
as the cracked man dipped his pen into the inky river
and began to write.
Before him a page of song began to unfurl,
and behind lay what mattered less.
Chapters rose from blotched waters,
and he lifted them to the lip of the rift,
as the paper man's chant came to an end,
and the tiny man sank back to his overhang in the cliffs.
The cracked man straightened,
and came to rest where the rapids rose,
spilling into the tiny man's house,
tearing down sheets of mottled paper,
and crumpling walls of long forgotten chapters.
He got out of his boat and began to weep.
rolled and roiled beneath his craft, pelting him forwards through the rift.
The bones of sentences long hidden, forgotten, and smudged, tumbled over and over
within the merciless waves of wet ink,
and propelled the cracked man forwards into a land where once no water flowed.
Ahead, he could see a house of paper and wind,
where atop a ladder perched a tiny man,
whistling and singing into the ceaseless cadence of the rift's random rumble.
Glancing quickly into the distance to his right,
he could see the small giant man making mountains of fur and wood,
lyrics of his chant tumbling down the cliff-sides in the distance.
Even from fathoms away, the cracked man could hear the despair
of stone breaking and cracking into a jumbled heap of letters.
Through the rapids then,
Bent and withered with a soul the shape of a snowflake,
the cracked man began his own written chant,
and the energy began pouring out of his feet,
like sand from a sieve,
and into the boneyard of words beneath his feet,
beneath his craft,
beneath his silent lips moving in a private prayer.
His small boat began changing direction,
as dark sunshine began breathing over and into the rift,
and words began crawling up over the side of the skiff,
bones and letters weathered and disused,
filling the bottom of the cracked man's craft.
Forwards then to the tiny man raising his paper-thin chant to the horizon,
as the cracked man dipped his pen into the inky river
and began to write.
Before him a page of song began to unfurl,
and behind lay what mattered less.
Chapters rose from blotched waters,
and he lifted them to the lip of the rift,
as the paper man's chant came to an end,
and the tiny man sank back to his overhang in the cliffs.
The cracked man straightened,
and came to rest where the rapids rose,
spilling into the tiny man's house,
tearing down sheets of mottled paper,
and crumpling walls of long forgotten chapters.
He got out of his boat and began to weep.
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