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He stood at the hilltop, amongst the dying trees, like silhouettes against the stark grey sky, he was human, but amongst these trees, he was just like them, blackened figures against a beautiful skyline.

Raising his hands, he traced the lines that ran down the length of the tree, words which were engraved callously into the bark, a testament to broken dreams.

But broken things are so pretty.

What was the point of tracing these words? There were so many of them, their declarations lost their meanings, they were but scars that meant nothing. Maybe he wasn't referring to the tree anymore, his eyes trailed to his arms, where scars lay like railway tracks.

He opened his mouth, wanting to protest, saying that the scars meant nothing now, just reminders.

But, there was no one to protest to.

His eyes trailed up his arms, like trains on those railway tracks.

But there was nothing but broken silhouettes.