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They had tortured him til all those like him before him had died
But he had not died
They had stricken him of all of his possessions and they had cast him to the desert
But it did not kill him
They had taken away everything from him and he had walked away from the life he had known
And that changed him profoundly
Perhaps irreparably
He had learned by hard degrees to die oh-so slowly
To watch his dreams be systematiy dashed on the rocks
He had cast aside love as dead weight because love did not love him back... hadn't he?
He had walked on into that ow heat and been half-eaten by it
The sun burning his flesh and then his mind
He had walked without anything, with nothing, for so long, after awhile that was all he knew
He learned to be poor and to lose more everyday
He had learned to suffer to the very dregs and to die
He'd grown accustomed to this reality over many, many years
Til love was some paradise on the other side of some great wall it'd taken hundreds of years to build
In all frankness, love to him was a word whose meaning, whose weight, meant little to him
It was the relic of a bygone life that war had taken away from him
And yet the war was because of love
He had been cast out because of love
All that he had suffered, he had suffered because he had chosen love
He knew love once
He half-remembered it
He remembered it even as the sun's glare baked his brain
But if tomorrow love found him, rescued him from... from all of this
It might not be that easy to go back
He might not be able to
Maybe he had truly forgotten how to love
How to live, how to be at all with that pressure of that war on his back
But even that idea was a fanciful one
He was after all, still in the midst of that desert
The sun baking away his brain
And love wasn't there
Love hadn't been there in years
For all he knew (and he believed it), love wasn't going to ever come back
He marched with listless, mechanical regularity
His feet could have kept tempo with a metronome
The sun and the world and the stars had all his life tried to kill him
And yet he had not died, would not die
He walked on beneath the sun even as it killed him
He wrote poems to love because that was all he could do
He did everything a madman could do to stay alive
Because that, too, was the nearest he could be to love
He still moved, he still breathed, and he still loved
But the war went on"