The wind whips through the trees

As the full moon dangles from a single thread in the black sky.

The chill permeates any layers worn,

And I shudder as a howl echoes through the eerie stillness.

Limbs are shaking, stomach’s quaking

I pick up my pace, the well-worn book clutched

In my clammy hands,

My footsteps reverberating through inky blackness.

Up ahead, twinkling lights remind me of home, and I smile.

As the thump-thump-thump of my boots gets faster,

I hear the irregular step

Of someone trying to match my staccato pace.

As the wind whips through the trees,

I draw my coat closer still to my shivering person.

Leaves rustle, whispering; “faster, faster”

Ravens caw; “quicker, quicker”

The wind cuts out.

And just as abruptly, I have a plan.

I pull my compass from my coat and slow my pace.

Traipsing through the forest, I stumble over a root,

Drop my book, and my compass.

The glass shatters, and I grab a shard,

Examining it, and my back, in the moonlight.

Instead of a dark, winding road,

I spy a cloak, and a knife’s silver glint,

And dark brown eyes that might’ve glowed,

If a murderous side might not have showed,

On the trip to my abode

I wish I’d thought of steel and flint.

I drop the shard and continue on,

Book in hand, coat tightly drawn.

I twist around and spot my prey,

I hope I’ll see another day.

The copy sails,

My victim wails,

Limbs flail

CRACK!

Silence.

The book is gone.

My compass has long been demolished.

The sudden serenity unnerves me.

I glance up, and the twinkling stars

Remind me of the city, and my home.

The chill permeates any layers worn,

So I pick up my pace,

Back to safety, and warmth,

And to the second copy of Far From You

Waiting safely on my bookshelf

For another read.