Sunlight fuzzed out his harsh edges...disintegrating the hand made crust of his heart. He was a figure of rich divinity on the plantation. The clouds were unsure of where his body ended and where the sky began, so they wrapped around him, welcoming him into their misty, murky arms. He was scrubbed faceless by the glow of the sun, but his power needed no identification. The image of him muted the rest of the scenery, censoring everything he worked on. Swinging dandelions now lost their rustiness and moved in silent, painless strokes with the kisses of the wind. The stomachs of ducks, once whining like children because of earth’s natural rationing, now became satisfied in their hunger, gnawing on themselves...slowly...lovingly. The man with the large whip and fiery red hair, now growing grey, beautifully withering away in silent submission...becoming the soil my usurping brother would soon till.