It is
cold. Gusts
of air whip
across my cheeks. I clutch
upon the rough branch of wood
in my hand
as I survey
the scene.
It is
silent.
Eerily soundless. The vast
plane of pale reddish-brown ground stretches
across my vision into the mist
not far beyond. There seems to be a faint hum but that
was probably
my
imagination.
It is
empty.
Deserted
of any sign
of life.
There is a great loneliness
about this place
that
I cannot
describe. It seemed
to be the edge
of the world, the place you
would come upon
if you keep
on going
forwards.
Is this what
life
has come to?
Is this
the
final
destination?
