It came out pretty well for being written at 11:30 at night after a long day.



I wake to find myself in a moonlit clearing, trees, giants, claw at the sky, bare little fingers, darker than onyx, burnt as cinders, grasping for light and life. They will find neither in the freezing night, illuminated by the moon in a starless sky.

A gentle mist crawls across the ground, swirling and swishing, dancing its solo duet, begging me to join. The playful mist contrasts eerily with the trees, filled with the radiance of the moon. Enjoying its game the mist pulls and pushes and prods at my feet.

The ends of my feet are just peeking out from beneath the hooded robe which floats around me like a morning fog. Bare, my feet glow, glistening in the brilliance of the moon. It’s neither cold nor hot, cool nor warm, it just is, no true sensation of the fire of life or of the ice of death exists.

Giving in, I begin a little dance with the mist, playful, free, unencumbered. The music plays, oh, what music! A prelude, a mazurka, a ballade, a polonaise, a waltz, a tango, a romance, a sonata, a concerto, a symphony, they all play at once in perfect harmony, totally silent yet filling the air with the comforts of sound.

Yet all too soon the music slows, the silence stagnates, and the friendly mist settles into a silver sea, as blades of grass grow gray from the depths.

And now I’m not alone.

He stands, leaning against his weary scythe, as if to say he watched the whole affair. His robe, darker, deeper, more endless than the moon filled starless sky, covers his entire figure. I see no hands, no feet, no neck, no chin, no ears, no nose, no eyes, no mouth, no teeth; but I can see his smile.

The smile isn’t friendly, yet it is comforting and inviting. Never ceasing to smile, he extends his hand, ready to guide me through the path which is now ever so clear. Without hesitation, I take his hand in mine.