sunday prompt: milestone

the invention of a milestone:


in place of an albatross he wore a millstone
around his neck. suffered through
the blinding sun and the twisting highways
and the dusty backroads,
head hanging and back straining
a torrent of sweat cascading
between sharkfin shoulderblades

he has come to this place,
read the sign that says
WAY STATION
and has halted, unsure.

there is an old building,
falling down around itself.
the sun cackles and crackles
and ascends like a madman who
runs up and down the same stairs
every day,
gibbering.
he is deafened by its noise,
folds himself into the station
and sits in the dust
and in the dark.

he has come in search of
Away,
and has yet to find it
but knows he is closer
than he ever has been.

he has named his shadow,
has given it a name in order
to control its waspish tendencies to
stretch out in the direction
he has come,
to sneak inside the soles of his shoes
and hide.
he has called it Miles,
somewhat frivolously.

he talks to his shadow, addresses it.
scolds it through cracked, dry lips
and with a lumpen tongue -

at night, in the cold,
her ghost: a pale blue shiver
like a pilot light about to go out.
parts her lips to speak
or kiss
and is gone.

in the morning he is walking again,
struggling with the weight of his millstone.

at half-past noon,
he unknots the rope and hurls it
as far from him as he can.
it lands and lays
like the shatter of Ozymandias,
quiescent. still.

he walks away
and leaves it to be covered
by the shifting wind