trapped. But for so long I believed you'd come down out of the hills and present yourself to me, resplendent in your pre-dawn golds and reds.
I've been ready for ages — too ready you might say — yet even still it seems you mock my chief virtue, patience, freezing me in some eagerness to hunt you down.
Still I sit here. But that's not wire you see — rather my twisted, honeycombed cage of mind.
Nor am I sad. It's just my mustache frames my mouth in a downward slope and the eyebrows I've had painted on point inward to a stare you do know well.
The accumulated dust of time and decay is nothing. I can shake it off. But I think not yet. I prefer to wait. Just a little longer. You're coming. I can sense it. Just outside my field of vision. Your scent.