A sort of rough draft for a book I’m making that’s going to be an epic poem, like Gawain and the Green Knight or Beowulf
Lone is silent. Lone never speaks.
But I can hear her when she squeezes my hand.
One day Lone squeezed my hand extra-hard. It bled.
She started to pull me away from
The Town with the Spindly Trees.
I began to realize she was taking me away.
I straddled between fear and curiosity.
“Where are we going?” I asked Lone.
She smiled but did not reply. Lone’s smiles were sad smiles.
Lone was a shadow, with long dark hair and hollow eyes.
I never let anyone but me see her.
She never let anyone but her see me, either. She did not mix well with people.
She was like glue put in reverse,
Parting the waves of people with invisible fingers.
They did not stray close to her.
Maybe they thought Lone was contagious.
There were words on Lone’s lonely lips,
Like black maggots crawling about a dead carcass.
But Lone is silent, and Lone never speaks,
So she mouthed them.
“Empty World,” she oozed. “Empty World.”