Sun

A change of weather is burning holes in my soul. I hold my soul in my hands, desperately hanging on to what is left, only to see my determination, will, and energy slip between my fingers to be absorbed by the earth - or Satan.

Like grains of sand, I watch everything slip away. Starting as stones, they are roughed and beaten to become minuscule representations of the stone who was once whole. I see minuscule representations of myself slipping between my fingers, some good and some bad, falling some thousand minuscule feet to the floor.

I wonder when I will be turned to hot magma and poured into a cast, when the smith is at last satisfied with the purity of the stone that I am, when I am done shedding the minuscule impurities. I wonder when I will become a whole again, and I wonder which part of me he will want - which part of me I will become.