The wind howls at the moon
As it rushes a cold,
Sharp gust of air towards me.
I shiver,
Pulling my jacket closer into my body,
My hands hugging the inside of my pockets.
Standing on a small,
Narrow path alone;
I can hear the snapping of twigs,
And the rustling of leaves swirl around me.
As I walk closer to the edge of the path;
All light fades from view,
And is replaced with pitch black darkness.
Then silence.
Taking another step,
I can feel myself fall through a hole,
And into a box of solitude.
I am trapped.
With no one but myself,
And the whispers of despair.
