By E.A. Blakley
It begins at the end.
Your eyes are open, though unseeing:
You are not awake—
Yet. The chilling wind surrounds,
Stirs a breath, a birth, a wailing
Cry against creation.
It implores you over the precipice,
And you fight the urge to jump,
To dash yourself against the drop
A thousand feet below.
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This thought is not your own,
Though you know little else.
             These are not your waters.
             These are not your stars.
They are dead:
pale, and blue, and broken,
and you realize that this is
where dead things go to die.