The moon hangs overhead,
locked in,
holding the sun at bay.

The night is long.
Miles from a beating heart,
hours from any hope of salvation.

Somewhere outside the cabin,
feet scrape across the damp woodland floor,
ripping up clumps of soil
and wet leaves.

But still,
no beating heart.

Silent trees,
silent hills,
and one deserted road.
Without power, there is nowhere to go.

Feet drag.
Time drags.
Why won't the night move?

It waits for something that cannot exist by day
and it has patience.