Beneath the surface of a book,
Another world stands still,
Tucked between blank pages,
Sitting on a windowsill.
Here it is called the Netherworld,
The place where Time begins,
Where the newly dead come and gather,
To wash away their sins.
The shoreline stretches ever on,
Until the pages end,
A vastness spreading ever outwards,
Until few can comprehend,
That there is nothing in this ocean vast,
Save the troubles of the free;
People living outside this world,
Who can hear, and sing, and see.
Opposite our troubled sea,
Are the plains, bleak and bare.
Do not dwell too far beyond,
Or forever at the horizon you'll stare,
Acquainted only by a maddening curse,
As forever the land you'll roam;
The whispering of the forgotten,
And the ones you left at home.
And fear always the Eidolon,
Who answers only as "Death",
For he offers us no solace here,
And has long since stolen your breath.
So forever we sit, waiting ever on,
In a world that has long stood still,
Tucked between blank pages,
Sitting on a windowsill.