From here, the trees look like skeletons with tufts of giant hair.

They look down at me from behind the moon.


Where is the wind?


I thought I felt it once, out here in this hot, dry, twisted desert, locked somewhere below the towers of the wounded hillside.


People died up there…long ago.

So far back in ancient times that there are no annals in the books to remember them.

It all may have been a myth.


Folklore: the word skeptics give to that which they are too afraid to believe.

Much like the word, rhetoric.

That’s just a word sometimes used to write off well-stated opinion that someone can’t debate.

But, sometimes it’s real, and what the other person says is contrite.


But, all of that is lost in a place like this: a nighttime circus on the edge of nowhere.

The outskirts of the world unseen.


I walk in a legion of the fallen with skids on our knees.


The Daystar once spoke to me about falling.

He said it wasn’t about the fall but the strength with which one picks themselves up with;

and, their resilience to carry on.


From here, the moonlight looks like the back of a skeleton’s head.

It is pale and smooth, like my heart used to feel.

It does not look at me.

It gazes to the beyond

Far away from the world

Through the blackened gulfs in the silent void of the outer reaches.


I am empty, sometimes.

The night isn’t always mine.


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