The Sinkhole 

The night is an empty cabin, 

a fire lit next to an aged bookshelf, 

a sad song humming in the distance of the desolate wood, 

the smell of mahogany wafting through the sage brush,  

a single whisper slithering quietly through the pines. 

And those around to witness it, crawl up 

from the depths. 

Beheading the cabin with a shout, the  

cowardly stars fading in silent anticipation. 

At the heart of the sinkhole stands the endless night, 

a cabin of repressed memories, and snuggled 

by the fire... 

You, impossible You. 

Carving a story into a proud spruce. 

Eyes like the deafening silence of the night. 

Forgotten. 

Unrecognizable. 

Loved.