The silence around me is deafening.
The moon is gold.
The Will-o'-the-wisp is beckoning.
My right-hand is cold.

My mind shrieks, "Turn away!"
But ghostly light is welcoming.
My legs do not obey.
The Wisp is beckoning.

Lead me onto strange paths,
Paths through and beyond the mist.
I don't notice the scratches on my calves
As I tirelessly follow the Wisp.

I have not the will to linger.
The grass has turned to stone.
A ring has fallen from my finger.
They'll find it long after I've gone.

High above the dirt,
Far below the heavens.
No path left. I know it will hurt,
Yet still the Wisp beckons.

The silence around me deafening.
I can't tell if the moon is gold.
The Will-o'-the-wisp is no longer beckoning.
My entire body is cold.

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