Too Late Poem by Mia Ocean

The black lake
is dangerous.
We do not know why.
We do not question.
The village people,
they don't answer questions.
Because they don't talk.
They claim the black lake tells
them to write.
So that's what they do.
They write us stories.
The stories warn us.
But sometimes,
writing is too slow.
And we don't know.
Us, we always know.
But sometimes we can't,
and the unthinkable happens.
We begin to Seperate.