All that was

I walked through streets paved with cobblestones
It was dusk, and the scent of spring was in the air
Pause to find my way among these houses bent by centuries
I am to see a man about a book that's stumbling slowly
through the age when they were built, and who lived here then

No. This book is in fact stopped well before its end
Becalmed in front of the coastline of the unknown
that I never before knew existed - but here abides one
who I gather can tell me more about these unconceived vistas

On a pale wooden table stands a cup, his face looms
I place paper, pen before me; mine - his - questioning gaze

So the house on the hill in all its decay was still inhabited
I had spoken to them, but they had not heeded my words
Nor even received them, yet forcing discrepancies that brought me here
It was not they who lived there or its structure that had my worry

The gaze across me grew, and after explanation tumbled, he spoke
As he spoke I dutifully wrote, hearing the scratches
Of lines of cold that stretched across the aether
Of whispers in the language of the unspoken

And he was the moment eater, he who spoke, who drew near to me
He had smeared the people across until their bands snapped
and they could speak or hear no more
For dread goes the distance and time holds it not

Though we provided his sustenance with our hours
he was unconcerned with us, yet like us in form, for now

I dropped pen onto paper
and without worry, without fear, he took all that was from me