white chalk outline

 

Of a man in two dimensions on a rough stone ground, did he sit in it because he saw it, lived it, or did they nudge until he was interred. He isn't dead. Yet. The circle of voices around, they are his direction, they feel his ground. But inside the white chalk outline, his the only sound. Should they have drawn after he had ceased?

But he has beautiful food and silks of the pagan gods inside, to soften the rough stone. It is no cage, just a few sketchy lines on the ground, why did he not move? There is conversation, to while the life away, a small price to pay. There is hope and shards of melting silence, the air around chalk is never still. There is motion, the earth below moves around and round.

There are answers here, never any unsettling questions. The chalk outline makes for certainty but the drawer did not wait for death inside. The outline is decided and the finale... a matter of time

Did he protest when the outline became a wall, why were his hands white with shale, why were the walls scored with helpless fingernails? There is still conversation warm and sweet, impeccable food and silken treats. The walls grow higher, he needs them now, to climb on, to see over. He'll escape any day now ...