An island, ever-deserted.
The air is as still and stagnant as the water,
hanging heavy with understanding
that no fairy-tale adventurer would plant a flag
on a land as barren and decrepit as this.

None shall trace the shifting sands, touching
every gentle rise
every soft hollow
with a whispering trail
that both hovers and runs deep,
causing the sprawling caverns beneath
to shake and shiver
and the lakes to ripple and murmur,
under weight that is both suffocating and tender
as a gasping gale blows petals asunder.

None shall see the secrets buried under the soil,
nor the rusting relics from long ago,
tangled in the roots of guardian oaks,
that have become withered and wise,
reaching almost reluctantly towards the sky.
All things have their time.
When the ocean swallows this land whole,
none shall cry out in despair.
It was never anyone's home-
it was never really there.