He's scared, especially at dawn when an unlit sun rises, illuminating nothing.
He does what he must. He feigns brightness, which when not real looks stark, glaring, more like pulsating neon, not true light.
Some think he's standing at the crossroads, after taking little steps that could only lead to hell. He alone, knows though, that not even evil options remain. There is no road to stand on, not even one that burns.
In the mirror he sees a loser lost, a counterfeit person, fooling the fools who think he's alive. But he's dead, and death's memory is dead, so he can't remember life.
Rigor mortis impedes love's penetration.
Those who care sit at his living-dead wake, wishing for powers of resuscitation because words prove insufficient to spark his glow, so hard to birth from darkness.
And while his little girl tries to be cute enough to make him seek reason, despondently he smiles, takes a drink from his tenth glass of liquid spirit and continues to pursue his disappearance.
(Submitted to: Carry on Tuesday (prompt: "standing at the crossroads")
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