the mythical box turtle

I plough upon the shore. Such a ponderous burden upon my shoulders to toil lands bereft of fecundity; woe me, I am not Atlas! And surely, I am not to be confused, ever, with altruistic Prometheus. I prefer the voluptuous delights this world offers, to the unknown and divine promised to the saintly. I shall leave that to the pious.

The vacuous dell of my mind is dead silent; uninhabited. The gentle susurrations of Æolus’ gift are no longer heard. I am barren. Yet in the periphery, from her bowels, the earth spits forth life. It has arisen rapidly and voraciously, tearing asunder the dark brown earth that lay torpid. A scintilla of tawny bronze is occasionally deciphered, greedily strewn about. As for the histrionic theatre troupe of etiolated trees with voraciously raised arms into the celestial firmament, these disheveled and forlorn mendicants are no more. Through their suppliant hands runs a voluminous canopy of effulgent green. All is mostly green now. And dark.