He swung,
his hand carrying the force of time past.
Ten.
Twenty.
One hundred.
Every swing reminded Kenneth of the years lost.
In a perfect arc, his axe met the cold bark and shattered.
Why did he swing?
Why did he court death?
Time had eroded his memory.
It's all fleeting.
Now, just as he grips his broken axe,
Kenneth holds onto his forgotten past.
A thousand shattered tools lay destroyed around him.
He claws for another one,
swinging his heart out.
Swinging.
Swinging.
Swing. Swing.
The tree God always wins.
It hums mockingly
and shakes the ground as it bellows.
Debris stirs.
Kenneth kneels… reminiscent.