Isle of the Dead

I am adrift, my face and body are bound in gossamer-like fabric as I lay aboard an oarless boat floating across a lake unknown,

The shroud I wear has been worn by many, I’m cast out by unseen hands and drift silently,

Mist covers the lake, smothering the sky like a pale heavy blanket weighed down at its ends.

My senses are as blind to the starlight above, as the water is to the reflection of the moon.

A small island reveals itself through the darkness, crowded with ancient trees held back by a stone gate,

My vessels path has been true, and it soon halts in the dark wet sands that welcome my arrival.

The stone gate opens, and the great thorned trees stretch backwards creaking, to reveal a hidden path,

I find myself floating along the path, no longer by boat, but carried by the invisible hands of the mist,

Through the shroud I see the dark branches above me, like great cracks across the bright moonlit sky beyond,

I hear the distant clank of the gate closing, and sound of the trees I’ve passed creaking back into position,

The moonlight soon fades, and I drift off into nothingness.