A Year of Stories (Collection Three)

Pass Through the Eye of the Needle

Pass through the eye of the needle.

Don't fear.

This is a place you've known before,

That you'll know again.

You don't just see this, you smell it,

You hear it,

You taste it,

You feel it with senses you long forgot you had.

You are afraid though, despite my warnings,

And this is why they attack.

From cramped corners and from sharp edges and from alcoves bound in shadow and dust.

A lessor creature would be corrupted, destroyed.

But you are no lessor creature.

You fight.

You win.

Through the eye of the needle you roam,

You gain control of your fear, and let your new senses fly.

You feel her or him, a distinction that barely matters.

Feel them at a distance – all distance – a distinction that barely matters.

You pull bits of stray soul together.

You use them to light your way.

You press on.

Through the eye of the needle you search.

With new senses sharp, and soul light burning.

You're lost, which is how you know you're close.

You're lost, which is why you know they're here.

Because here beyond the eye of the needle,

The only found things are shadows and ghosts,

And only lost light can be saved.

And save them you must.

Through the eye of the needle you find,

Her or him, the distinction barely matters.

What matters are their eyes,

Their skin,

The taste of their fear,

The light of their soul, scattered across this lost land like ember and ash.

You're here to save them, but they don't understand.

All they see is teeth like knives and hands like razors.

Their soul sweats at your touch.

You're gentle as you consume their light.

Make them strong in shadow.

They'll never thank you for what you've done.

Nor do you need their thanks.

All you need are stray bits of soul to burn,

To light your way back through the eye of the needle.