A hollow night,

Chilled to the bone by the

Bitter wind.

Barks and howls;

A clouded sky;

Tearless, grayed, mourning moon.


Pale light showers down upon the

Lands below the moon’s gaze;

A lonesome cabin amid

Towering gray-white peaks that

Split the sky––

Stone-shivering mountainsides,

Coated in greenish fur––

An endless sea of trees:


Towering like the elevated eyries,

Furred with green hair

Like the mountains,

Creaking and swaying with the

Rhythm of the harsh mountain wind,

Speaking;

Seeking out friends or even

Mere acquaintances amid

Their loneliness.


A lake:

Pallid, shear like a cliffside;

Rippling and wavering––

Waves lapping against the stony bones

Of the shore––

Mirroring its surroundings in an

Upside-down paradox.


A single boat.

Withered, aged, and splintering;

Sinking within the lake’s wavering mirror––

The extra weight of a fisherman.


Lonesome, intrigued, saddened.

Saddened by the fact that all of the

Fish are gone, left––

Trout, brooks, and all––

No one to accompany the fisherman.

No one to share his failure with.


An old man.

Graying, balding, lonesome

Like the rest of his surroundings.

Standing and gazing from a mountaintop––

Seeking a friend or companion,

Unaware of the fisherman far below––

Knowing, perceiving, loving, withering.

Yet lonely––

No one to accompany him on his journeys.


Amid this all: Generations.

Generations of lonesome creatures.

Generations to end, generations to come.

Generations––

Lonesome generations––

Yet all generations