all things

There's a man who sits behind me, seemingly wherever I go.

His name is Mirkwood.

There is a deep, old darkness about him. 

And he's always there.

I made eye contact the very first time I noticed him.

And that let him in. 

He sits there, grubby, wanting.

Waiting for something

Or waiting for nothing at all, whichever is worse.

Take this time, for instance.

I went to the library

The bright Northeast wall

Where there are seats every twenty paces at the windows

And when you're sitting, you can't see the seat ahead or behind

Because each window-seat pair is recessed successively.

I walked to the back, hoping to find it vacant

But he was already there, waiting

I sat in the seat in front, out of his view

But not likely, because matter of this plane

Does not affect him the same

He sat and watched my soul and tried to twist it

He may have succeeded, because I could not stop thinking

Could not stop feeling the dark at my back,

Even though the light was everywhere else.

He uttered dark words, ones that could form

Dark devices, dark instruments

Whose deeds were better left unstated

Because most couldn't possibly imagine

What they were capable of.

Mirkwood.  I prepared to confront him with light

And save the world.  But I turned and he was gone.

I asked others around if they had seen the man.

None of them had.  None of them would.

I sit, with him behind me, everywhere I go.

And I am to blame, again, for so much darkness.