Isle of the Dead

Adrift upon a silent lake,
A lone figure lay bound
In gossamer shrouds.

The cloth that wrapped them
Had embraced countless others before.

Cast out by unseen hands,
They floated upon an oarless boat,
Carried toward an unknown shore.

Mist smothered the water,
Blanketing the sky above,
Heavy and pale.

Their senses were as blind to the stars
As the dark water was
To the moon’s reflection.

Then, through the gloom,
An island emerged.

Ancient trees crowded its shores,
Held at bay
By a weathered stone gate.

The vessel’s course had been true.

It glided into dark wet sands
That silently welcomed its passenger.

The gate slowly opened.

Great thorned trees bent and creaked aside,
Revealing a hidden path
Into the heart of the island.

Then the figure moved once more.

No longer by boat,
But borne aloft
By the invisible hands of the mist.

Through the shroud,
Dark branches stretched overhead,
Like great cracks
Across the moonlit sky.

Behind them,
The distant gate groaned shut.

The trees creaked back into place,
Erasing the path they had travelled.

The moonlight faded.

The mist thickened.

And the lone traveller drifted onward
Into nothingness.