A Peculiar Escort

A blink,

A yawn,

A stumble,

And a trip.

Your eyes adjust to the gloom,

Nigh is dark, but space is darker still,

How far do you tread,

Before fear begins to crawl?

Bare soles giggle,

Toes buried in the crumbled rock,

Heels left to feel every unusual bite,

Pale skin turned ashen by the curious bed.

Wander you must, to find the way,

Though your mind knows not

What to seek, or to embrace,

Instead, it quivers in a fractious dance.

That is all it takes to

Call the tall, the slender, and the small,

To heel, and hark,

Your silent call.

‘Tis your breath that snags first

Upon the cracked bark odour,

And musty maize cologne,

That have taken to colouring the air.

‘Twas your eyes that refuse to swivel,

In that perfected motion,

And glistening glide of a dance

Thus, you see not what surrounds…

Surrounds your mortal body.

Only when the first finger slides

Over your sloping shoulder

To hold onto roughened fabric

And desperate guide

Do you feel anything other than

The searing choke that constricts

All hope of heat escape,

Back out into the Universe.

A chill,

That is what that finger brings,

Forces your head to turn

On the rusting atlantoaxial joint.

Greeting you is nothing…

Just seemingly endless pools

Of violet-blue ink,

Which shines with a moistness of stories untold.

Skeletal is the palm that raises,

Curls and extends what ought to be

The index finger,

Yet, precise is the pressing against the winsomely mute lips.

You nod once,

That’s all,

As you hold your tongue

To the unspoken demand.

No matter how intrigued

Your twitching hands were,

To explore the expanse of waxy flesh,

They remain tightly furled by your side.

Then together with your strange guard,

You are led forth into the Perilous Lands,

Lands of unknown source, nor origin,

Except you go all too willingly.

Willing will be your downfall,

Trust will be your fate,

And naïvety will always be your demise.

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