Massive, primeval beings that blot out the sun. They lay, uninterested, far above the world I know. Walls envy them, but obstruction is not their purpose. They exist to exist. A spire to unending stubbornness, waiting eons for their eventual erosion. I feel as though I can see their pulse, though they breathe no air. Truly, they frighten me. They enclose me without trying, with jagged rocks to deter escape through them. They are my protectors, the giver of all life. Their rivers feed a thousand like myself. I fear them nonetheless, an animal-like response to things beyond comprehension, their sheer size and weight impossible to truly understand . In their shadow, I am infinitesimally small.
Published by danielhampton
Daniel Hampton is a writer/rambler born and raised in Bakersfield. He recently received a degree in English Language and Literature from California State University Bakersfield. He’ll write absurdist stories about sandwiches with the same zeal he writes heartfelt poetry, much to the befuddlement of others. He envisions himself as a jack of all trades kind of creative writer but has extreme difficulty in talking about himself in the third person. Oh well. View all posts by danielhampton